“And about time it is,” Maris snapped, taking the pitcher from Agnes more roughly than necessary. She turned, curtseying to Bon. “My lord, as we have been interrupted, I pray you will allow my maid to prepare me for bed. I have much to accomplish on the morrow to prepare for our wedding, as I wish to make you proud.” She fairly held her breath, waiting to see if he would acquiesce, or if he would order Dirick and Agnes from the chamber and continue with his hands down her bliaut.
Bon swaggered to his feet and she gave a silent sigh of relief. “As you wish, my dearling,” he said, as if granting her the moon. “But know that the taste I have had will barely suffice until we are well and truly wedded.”
With the last press of a kiss to her hand, he turned to make his way from the chamber. After two steps, he halted in his tracks, turning toward Dirick—who was still meddling with the fire. “Dirick, you belong on the outside of this chamber, and do you not forget that. Come now—the fire is blazing.”
“Aye, you are dismissed.” Maris turned regally away from him.
She felt Dirick still behind her, and then sensed it as he pulled himself to his feet with careful deliberation. For an instant, she felt him towering behind her. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she fancied she felt the spear of his stare driving into her back. Keeping her head high and her face averted, she walked over to the bed, untying the curtains that would keep the drafts out during the night.
Maris didn’t turn until both men quit the chamber and the door shut behind them. At last she was able to breathe a sigh of relief.
“Oh, my lady, are you—are you untouched?” Agnes asked in a low voice, pouring the pennyroyal tea into a goblet. “I hurried as quickly as I could. Did my lord—did he hurt you?”
“Nay.” Maris took a long drink of the lukewarm tea, then refilled the goblet and drank again. “Though ’twas a near thing.”
“My lady, what is the purpose of the pennyroyal? Is it not for Lord Bon, that you planned to poison him in some way?”
Maris shook her head and forced herself to drink more of the bitter tea. “Nay, for were he to be poisoned, would I not be the first at which the fingers would point? ’Tis to bring on my monthly flux. Bon will not touch me while I am unclean, and I pray my Papa will arrive before ’tis through. Bring me as much as you are able, as I must drink a good portion to ensure that it begins on the morrow. I must needs find some other way to keep him from me tomorrow night, as ’twill surely not start ere then.”
“Mayhap there is something to put his lordship to sleep early,” Agnes suggested.
“Mayhap, yet that is bound to be discovered. Is it not common for a bridegroom to spend the eve before his wedding fasting and doing penance?” Maris asked with a smile.
“I’ve not heard of such a thing, my lady,” Agnes shook her head.
“Methinks I’ll make such a suggestion to my lord Bon, and I’ll pray he swallows it.” Maris took a final draught of pennyroyal tea, then, looking ruefully under the bed, added, “I’m certain to be up in the night to use this” —she pulled a chamber pot from under the high bed— “after drinking so much of this tea, but it cannot be helped. Here, Agnes, climb you into bed, and we shall keep the other warm.”
Outside the chamber door, Dirick leaned against the rough stone wall, trying to erase the mental picture of the helpless Maris sprawled on Bon’s lap, her breasts spilling from her gown.
He snorted. Helpless? Maris of Langumont was anything but helpless. She already had her abductor wrapped neatly around her little finger, and the ease with which she’d done so was both admirable and frightening. Bon would probably set her free if she begged prettily enough.
Yet, he thought there’d been more than a trace of fear in her eyes when he burst unannounced into her chamber. Maris was definitely not out of danger yet.
Dirick did some quick calculations: he’d sent the messenger to Langumont just before the evening meal. The man would not reach his destination until late on the morrow…and then it would no doubt take Merle some time to gather his forces before they were on their way to Breakston. He estimated two days at best, more likely three, until Dirick would have help from that quarter. Unless by some miracle Merle had already discovered the identity of his daughter’s abductor.
But he didn’t have the luxury of three days, for Bon was determined to wed the day after the morrow.
Dirick leaned against the wall, considering his options. It wasn’t the marriage itself that would be so much the problem: a forced marriage could easily be annulled, and he was a clear witness to the forced aspect of it. Nay, what concerned him the most was the harm that could be done to Maris in the meanwhile. The loss of a maidenhead, so crucial to a profitable marriage, could not be rectified, but it was the manner it which it would be taken that troubled Dirick. His insides soured at the thought of the stocky, hirsute Bon poised over Maris’s delicate, white body.
He had to find a way to get her out of Breakston. But first, he had to get her to trust him, and in light of the dark, loathing looks she’d sent his way…it wasn’t going to be easy.
Maris awoke with a start to find her mouth muffled by a large hand, and a great weight pushing her into the bed. She panicked, thrashing frantically beneath the figure above her, ignoring his urgent whispers. Her eyes bulged wide open above the firm hand, trying to see her tormenter.
The chamber was still dim, although the fire, which had quieted during the night, gave off a low light, and a hint of dawn peered around the tapestries that covered the windows. She kicked and clawed viciously, forcing him to capture a wrist with his free hand.
“Maris, calm yourself,” the voice urged, coming altogether too close to her ear.
She was as startled as he when, with one lucky thud, she placed a heavy kick near his groin and in the ensuing confusion, tumbled him off the bed. Then she let loose a blood‑curdling scream.
“God’s blood, Maris!” Dirick scrambled to his feet, tangling in the rumpled bedclothes. “Do you want me killed that badly?” He stood, staring down at her, hands on his hips, breathing heavily, his dark hair wild and his face furious.
“Sir Dirick!” she exclaimed, her heart pounding madly and her knees still weak. “How dare you—Where’s Agnes?”
“Be still and listen to me,” he spoke rapidly and urgently. “By God, I mean you no harm. I will help you escape if you will only trust me—”
“Trust you!” she spat, pulling the bedclothes up to cover her bare thighs. “Pah! You were here to welcome me to this—this serpent’s lair!”
“Maris.” In the interest of time, Dirick resisted the urge to throttle her. In fact, he could hear the stomping of feet drawing near. “Dammit, woman, I mean you no harm! I am sent by the ki—”
The door flew open and Bon burst in, followed by Edwin and two other men-at-arms.
“What goes on here?” Dressed only in a long loose shirt and sagging chausses, he brandished a sword and immediately set its point at Dirick’s throat. “I shall kill you as you stand for daring to enter my lady’s chambers!” The other men surrounded Dirick as he froze in place.
“Nay!” Maris’s commanding voice stopped the final thrust of the sword. “My lord, this man—er, Sir Drake? I cannot recall his name—but entered the chamber in response to my scream.”
She took on an expression of mortification. “I am sorry, my lord, I could not sleep, and as I prepared to rise to stoke the fire, I saw a mouse skitter across the floor.” She ducked her head in embarrassment as one of the men-at-arms snickered.
Before Bon could question why he had had to open her chamber door if, indeed, Dirick had rushed in to her rescue, Maris put a pout of indignation on her face, even thrusting her lower lip out a bit as she’d seen the little girl Bit do when she wanted aught from her father. “An’ I see, my lord, that the rodents are yet another matter to which I must attend in this keep. Do you not think I could find a cat in the village and keep her in my chamber—our chamber—until we are well rid
of these mice?” She widened her eyes innocently, all the while heavily aware of Sir Dirick’s attention on her and the sword-point at his throat.
Slowly, Bon dropped his blade and made the slightest bow to Dirick. “My apologies, sir. I am well‑pleased that you have taken my lady’s well‑being to heart.”
Then he turned to Maris. “Alas, my lady, I do not care for cats…however, I shall think on your request.” He said these words with such sincere formality that she had to swallow back a nervous giggle.
“Now, if you please,” she said, the imperiousness returning to her voice, “I fear I am much exhausted from all of this excitement and should seek my bed.” Her eyes fastened purposely on Bon. “Until the morrow, my lord.”
“Until the morrow, my wife.” And for the second time that night, Bon de Savrille meekly led his men from her chamber.
Chapter Thirteen
Allegra had not risen from her bed since Merle led his army of men‑at‑arms to Maris’s rescue. Maella fussed worriedly over her mistress, but the frail woman did nothing but clutch at a worn wooden crucifix and pray.
“Milady, ’t has been nearly two days. You must eat!” The maidservant thrust a bowl of broth under her lady’s nose. “Lord Merle will bring the lady home safely.”
“Nay.” Allegra’s voice was hoarse from overuse in cantations to the saints. “I have not much chance for life when he returns to Langumont. My lord Merle will kill me.”
Maella’s face grew soft at her mistress’s confession. Pulling a stool near the bed, she smoothed a worn hand over the furrowed forehead of the woman she had served since birth, noticing the new white streaks throughout her soft brown hair. They had appeared over night. “My lord is just and fair. He holds no anger toward you for the actions of your brother, my lady.”
“Nay.” Allegra’s hand curled around the hand that stroked her forehead. “Nay, Maella, ’tis not for that that I fear my life. ’Tis that I—I have told Michael that he is Maris’s true father, and begged him to release her from the betrothal.”
The maidservant drew back sharply. “My lady, you did not.”
“My daughter cannot wed with his son!” Allegra’s voice was stronger.
“Aye, my lady, but you did not tell the lord of the truth—yet you told Lord Michael?”
Allegra moved her head in affirmation. “I dared not tell Lord Merle, Maella. I dared not,” her voice trailed off weakly. “God forgive me.”
Maris had a plan.
She spent the day ordering the serfs about in the Great Hall, poking into the foodstuffs in the kitchen, and finalizing her plans to escape. Sir Dirick trod, it seemed, in her every footstep so that she was unable to turn without barreling into his large frame, and despite her mistrust of him, she found herself almost—almost—relieved to have him near.
Lord Bon sat for much of the day in his throne‑like chair, watching in astonishment as Maris took the reluctant serfs to task. If either man noticed the absence of Maris’s maid, Agnes, they did not comment on it.
At the midday meal, the preparation of which had been supervised by Maris, Bon dug heartily into the excellent fare—as did the other diners.
“Ahh,” he belched, patting the hand of his intended wife. “I’d not realized the lacking of my cook! If you continue to feed me thus, I’ll not be able to sit a horse.” He laughed as if ’twas impossible to imagine this coming to pass.
Maris, noticing his already considerable girth, chose not to comment. Instead, taking a last drink of ale, she poked the venison in her trencher to the side. “My lord, there was a stink to some of the meat hung in your kitchens,” she told him. “I do not believe any of it was prepared for the meal, yet I cannot be certain. Much of the venison had been stewing before I came upon it. In any case, I rid the kitchens of what was left of the bad meat, but, my lord, there is naught for our wedding feast on the morrow.”
“Do you not fret, my lady,” Bon stroked her fingers, heedless of the grease that slicked his own. “’Twill not be the first I’ve eaten bad meat…an’ I have already planned a hunt on the morrow for our wedding feast.”
“My lord, you have astonished me yet again with your foresight!” Maris fluttered her eyelashes at him as she pulled her hand away. Wiping it surreptitiously on the edge of his tunic, she clambered over the bench, noting with satisfaction that there was nary a crumb of food left for even the dogs to nibble on. “Pray excuse me, as I must see to the evening meal, now, my lord,” she hurried away.
“It was an excellent meal, my lady,” Dirick’s deep voice came behind her as she crossed the hall.
Her back stiffened even as her heart leapt. She had not forgotten his rude awakening of her the night past, and the way his warm, solid body had pressed into hers. Thus, Maris studiously ignored the man as she entered the kitchens. After giving rapid direction to the cook, she gathered her skirts and returned to the hall to order the rotting rushes to be removed.
By the time new rushes were being spread upon the floor, Maris’s stomach was churning. ’Twill begin any time now.
“My lord, I will withdraw to my chamber,” she approached the dais. “I do not feel well.” The queasiness that stole over her was not entirely fabricated. “I will nap and join you for supper.”
Bon nodded graciously, “Of course, my lady. I shall send Agnes to you ere I see her.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Maris turned and walked steadily toward the stairs, aware of Dirick’s dark gaze boring into her back. He must not suspect anything, she thought, pulling herself slowly up the steps. Desperate, knowing that his gaze had held a hint of suspicion at her excuse, Maris jammed a finger down her throat as she rounded the corner at the top of the steps.
She managed to gasp a convincing, “Sir D—” before she turned and retched up her dinner—right onto Dirick’s leather boots. Sagging against the rough stone wall, she struggled for breath against what was actually a laugh at the horrified look on his face.
“Pardon,” she managed to make her voice sound embarrassed and contrite. “I must lie down.” She fled from his presence and into her chamber as quickly as her “illness” would allow.
Once behind the closed door, she allowed her mirth to escape, smothering her giggles with the heavy pillows on her bed. It was several moments before she heard Dirick take up his post outside her door—just enough time for him to have wiped off his boots and called for someone to clean up her mess.
Maris dozed whilst she waited for Agnes to join her…and for all chaos to begin belowstairs. She would need all of her faculties about her later that night.
When the maid arrived at the bedchamber, she was in good spirits. “My lady, ’tis happening,” Agnes announced as the door shut heavily behind her. “Just as you said!”
“Excellent.” Maris smiled complacently. “How does our guard seem to be faring? ’Tis he who concerns me the most…besides my lord Bon.”
“Sir Dirick has not become ill yet, though from the very look on his face, verily he will be reaching for a chamberpot soon.”
“Or rushing for the garderobe.” Maris stifled a giggle.
“What did you put in the food, my lady?”
“’Tis a plant called broom,” she explained. “’Twas all good fortune, really, Agnes, for one of the old brooms in the kitchen had bristles made from the plant. The dried branches, with leaves and flowers, may be steeped and used for medicinal purposes. Yet, my mentor, Good Venny, always warned that ’tis an herb that must be used with care, for it has great power. It causes the body to—ah—dispose of its contents in a violent manner. Though it won’t kill them, it will likely cause more than one to wish for death. It was a much better choice than elder bark, which I had thought to use until I saw the broom.”
“Do you not think Lord Bon will suspect ’twas you that poisoned the meal?” asked Agnes.
Maris rose from her prone position on the bed. “Nay, for I told him that the meat stank, and that mayhap some of it was prepared for supper. Then, I made mysel
f sick upon Sir Dirick’s fine leather boots.” She drew the tattered tapestry back from the window slit, noting with satisfaction that the sun had nearly set. “Is all in readiness?”
“Aye. I have hidden the foodstuffs I purchased in the village with your ring, my lady, and a mount awaits us near the hidden entrance to the keep.”
Maris turned in surprise, delight spanning her face. “A mount, you say? Agnes, how on earth…?”
“The stable master bears no love for Lord Bon, my lady, and ’twas no great feat to convince him that I plan to escape with a lover now that my lord has found a bride!”
“Very well, then. ’Tis nigh time that we should leave.” She scrabbled through a trunk and pulled a large leather pouch from its depths. Inside were two heavy cloaks she’d found in the piles of clothing Bon had made available to her, as well as a dagger she’d sneaked into her sleeve earlier that day.
As the two women moved toward the heavy door, they heard a loud groan from without. Maris looked at Agnes and carefully opened the door.
Dirick was doubled up on the floor, his face pasty with pain and glistening with sweat. When he heard the oaken door creak open, he struggled to sit, but the pain that wracked his abdomen had obviously weakened him. There was a pool of vomit nearby, proving that he had not chosen to leave his post when the sickness struck.
Maris tried to slip past him, but Dirick gathered enough strength to snatch under the hem of her gown and grasp her ankle. “You are not ill!” he grated, comprehension in his face. “By God, woman, you have done this!”
Agnes hurried past, but Maris, still caught by the ankle and not wishing to make a great disturbance, struggled to free herself. “I had no choice,” she told him, confident that he was too weak to stop them. Indeed, his strong arm trembled with the effort to hold her and she saw a ripple of pain cross his face. “Papa would not be here soon enough.” With her other foot, she kicked at his hand, but his grip did not loosen. “Release me,” she hissed, bending to claw at the arm that held her firm.
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