A Whisper of Rosemary (The Medieval Herb Garden Series)

by Colleen Gleason

  “Of course,” Merle agreed. “Maris, will you not show Sir Dirick where the men-at-arms lay their pallets? And any other comforts he may need? Come, Allegra, let us go abovestairs.”

  Maris stood reluctantly, dismay by her father’s innocent command. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with this man. She’d felt his attention returning to her again and again during the evening, and had been unable to ignore the interest in his stare. Try as she might, she’d been unable to keep her mouth closed and her mind on her food—as her mother had admonished her many a time. Nay, if the man was to wed her, he’d know from the beginning that she had her own thoughts and opinions, and an interest in the world beyond Langumont’s walls.

  “Of course, Papa,” she said in a voice that disguised her discomfort.

  Obviously, Sir Dirick did not miss her mislike of the situation, for as soon as Merle and Allegra were out of earshot, he said, “Lady Maris, I am perfectly able to find my own pallet.”

  “Nay, ’tis my father’s wish. I should not put a guest out,” she smiled at him, swallowing the resentment she felt for being pressed into a marriage she did not want. In all honesty, it was not this man’s fault—and he seemed pleasant enough now that he was not ahorse. “Have you bathed?”

  “Nay,” he shook his head, surprise flashing in his gray-blue eyes.

  “May I offer you a warm bath before I direct you to your pallet?” she asked. “Gustave will bring the water. I won’t take long, and you will soon be for bed.”

  “You?” Those eyes turned on her with a sudden intensity, and he looked at her for a moment, a very faint smile hovering at the corners of his mouth.

  Maris’s throat went dry and she nearly stepped away from him and the unexpected stirrings in her middle. The sudden image of this man, devoid of his chausses and tunic, settled into a tub that would hardly fit his large body, filled her mind. His dark hair, which now curled wildly about his face and jaw, would be sleek and dripping, his broad shoulders bare and steam rising from dark skin—

  Maris bit her lip as her cheeks flushed with warmth. What was wrong with her? She’d never had such lewd thoughts over such a mundane chore. “Aye, of course,” she managed to say in response to the question she’d nearly forgotten.

  “Nay,” Sir Dirick rumbled after what seemed like forever. His smooth, low voice carried easily to her ears, even over the noise of the servants as they cleared off the tables and stacked the benches. “I do not believe I should put myself through such torture.”

  Her heart in her throat and her mind whirling—unsure as to what he meant by such a comment—Maris spun away to hide her discomfiture. “Then if you would follow me,” she murmured and blindly began to make her way between the nearly empty tables, anxious to be rid of her charge.

  As they approached a group of rowdy knights, Maris paused, resting her hand on the shoulder of a burly, red headed one. They quieted almost as if she’d commanded it. “Sir Raymond, how fares your shoulder? Is the pain lessening?”

  The man’s face nearly matched the color of his hair when he turned it up to look at her. “Aye, my lady. The pain is nearly gone.” He moved his arm as if to demonstrate.

  “You will come to the herbary on the morrow and I will check it again,” she ordered. It wouldn’t do for her father’s best man to have an injured arm. “The last I dressed a wound for you, ’twas only once that you came to me—and look what has happened to it because of your carelessness!”

  He grinned up at her, “Aye, my lady. On the morrow, I will allow you to torture me yet again. ’Tis only because your touch is so sweet that I can sit through the pain,” he teased in the manner of a big brother.

  Maris, who’d grown up with Raymond pulling at her pigtails and chasing her through the keep with spiders, planted hands on her hips as the other men laughed. “Aye, and you should keep such sweetness on your tongue, or I will put you through more tortures if you spread tales. Did I not warn you that some day you would pay for the frog in my bed?”

  There wasn’t a hint of guile in her actions, Dirick thought as he watched. She had no concept of what she did to a man, with those teasing golden green eyes and vibrant smile—particularly the redheaded knight, whose besotted expression was not quite brotherly. Whatever reason she’d been in the village at night, it hadn’t been for a tryst—he was now certain of it.

  Dirick’s skin still prickled at the memory of her innocent offer to bathe him, and he wondered if her father knew she’d made such a gesture. A sudden streak of heat shot through him at the thought of her scratched and stained hands soaping his body…but he thrust the thought away immediately. He’d do well to find a woman this night. Mayhaps one of the maidservants would oblige him.

  Not for the first time that evening, he wondered why he’d heard nothing of the beautiful heiress of Langumont—from either his brother or the court. Certainly a well landed maid as comely as Maris Lareux wouldn’t escape the notice of the unmarried, land-greedy barons at court.

  Lady Maris’s voice broke into Dirick’s thoughts as she led him around into the area reserved for the men-at-arms and other important visitors. It was a large room, cordoned off from the rest of the hall by a heavy oaken door—much nicer than many of the men’s quarters he’d slept in throughout England and France. A fire roared in the corner, and a serf slumped against the wall, snoring, with a stack of wood within reach.

  “You may place your pallet anywhere you like, Sir Dirick,” Maris offered. She handed him a pile of blankets, more than generous enough to keep one warm—especially with a blazing fire in the same room.

  “Thank you, my lady,” he took the bundle.

  She paused for a moment as if contemplating her next words, and when she spoke, a small grin tickled the corner of her enticing mouth.

  Her words, however, when they came, eliminated any hint of innocence. “Papa bade me see to your comforts. If your need is as great as ’twas yestereve, I will send a woman to you.”

  Dirick felt his face flush hot as he ground his teeth together in an attempt to maintain his dignity. Words escaped him, and before he could gather his wits, the little minx took his silence for dissent and whirled away down the dark corridor.

  He could only stare after her, trying to decide whether he wanted to murder her or kiss her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Maris dressed without Verna’s assistance the next morning. She’d wakened earlier than usual and found too many thoughts trundling through her mind to make more sleep likely, so she rose. It was a frigid morn, and the sun had not even begun to peek over the edge of the earth to warm it.

  Down the stone steps she went, breezing through the hall where several men-at-arms were sprawled in a corner. Obviously, they’d not made it to the knights’ quarters where she’d left a dumfounded Sir Dirick the night before.

  A bemused smile quirked her face at the memory of his shocked expression, and, engrossed as she was, Maris misstepped and trod upon the cat’s tail. The tabby emitted a yowl of protest (the sotted men still did not stir) and the feline stalked off through the matted rushes, refusing to accept Maris’s apologies.

  She tsked at herself, fearing that the cat’s reaction was merely a foreshadowing of what her father would say if he heard of her unladylike gibe at Sir Dirick. She couldn’t keep from glancing again toward the common sleeping area, where he was likely sprawled out on his pallet.

  For a moment, she imagined his thick dark hair tufted and curling where he rested his head, his pleasing face lax and smooth in his rest. Mayhap an arm would be thrown out, away from his blanketed body…or a leg might be lying atop the woolen blanket whilst the rest of him slumbered in comfort. His disturbing grey-blue eyes would be closed in sleep—those eyes that looked at her with such intensity that her heart dodged about in her chest. Yet, when they were not focused on her, she’d noticed that they were a soft, cloud like grey, flecked with blue. The color of Langumont Bay on a winter day, and fringed with the longest, darkest lashes she’d ever s
een, or noticed, on a man.

  Maris started, realizing in confusion that she had paused in the hall and stood, staring toward the sleeping area as these thoughts danced through her mind. Though no one was about to see her actions, her cheeks warmed and she turned resolutely away. Although there was no harm in mooning over one’s betrothed, she had balked against marriage for so long that it felt odd for her to relish the thought of knowing all aspects of a man’s body. Maris gathered up her heavy wool tunic and draped it over her arm as she stepped over an up ended bench.

  The kitchen was deserted except for Bit, the daughter of the cook, who slept in the corner on empty flour sacks. One large blue eye opened as Maris approached, and a yawn cracked across the pudgy, dirty face.

  “Milady!” she started awake and jerked to her feet.

  “Go back to your bed, Bit,” Maris told her. “’Tis well before matins, and all are sleeping soundly but myself and the cat.”

  She turned to root about in an apple barrel, and, finding a barely bruised one, she polished it against the soft blue wool still draped over her wrist. She broke her fast with a piece of day old bread, found wrapped in cloth under a board, and a large swallow of watered down ale.

  She made her way out into the bitter morning, crunching the apple. It was nearly as dark as the night she’d trudged home from Thomas the cooper’s wretched home. Stars lit the dark blue heavens, and a large moon still hung in their midst. Despite the cold, Maris stopped for a moment to look up. She drew her squirrel lined cloak tighter about her shoulders as she stood in the center of the silent bailey. The only other creatures stirring were her father’s midnight watch, posted on the north and south walls of the bailey. Sir Richard, on the north wall, saw Maris and waved in greeting and recognition.

  She waved back, and, finishing the last of her apple, pocketed the core for Hickory. A shiver took her by surprise, and she hurried on her way to the stable where the presence of the horses would make it warm.

  It was indeed warmer in the old building, but much darker. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but then she could just make out the moving grey shapes of the horses. Maris clicked her tongue hello and moved down the length of the stable to where her mare nickered in greeting.

  She buried her hands in Hickory’s warm brown mane, to warm them as much as to say hello. Stroking the mare’s neck, she spoke soothingly to her as the horse poked her velvety nose into the folds of Maris’s cloak. Her mistress never visited without a treat, and the rest of her apple was discovered and quickly munched down.

  “How is your leg?” Maris asked her friend softly, kneeling in the stall. She pushed the hood of her cloak back from her face and ran sure hands along Hickory’s foreleg. The mare didn’t wince, and she unwrapped the bindings to find the swelling nearly gone.

  “Ah, you are feeling much better,” she crooned. “We’ll be off to hunt the wild boar on the morrow, sweet Hickory,” Maris whispered as she stood to caress the velvety nose that bumped her head. “We’ll tear the beastie into little pieces, aye, will we not?”

  “And what says your father of this plan to snare the wild boar?” The voice behind startled her and she whirled about, heart lodging in her throat.

  “Sir Dirick, that was not very nice,” she told him indignantly as she tried to slow her thumping heart. “I could have been talking about you!”

  He gave a short laugh. “And mayhap it would have served me right if you had,” he said with better humor than she’d expected.

  Awakened much too early by the terrible, haunting dreams of his father’s death, Dirick had been in the corner of the hall and seen Maris slip from the keep in her brilliant blue cloak. Looking for an excuse to escape from the darkness of those dreams, Dirick had taken the opportunity to follow her.

  He must spend another day or two at Langumont while he waited for word as to whether Bon de Savrille was in Breakston, and Dirick intended to keep his mind and body occupied so that he didn’t fall into the despair of grief and anger over his need to find Father’s murderer. Lord Merle had promised him some training to keep his body active, and the puzzle of his daughter would serve to intrigue his mind. Soon, he would be on his way on the king’s business…and then to his own matters.

  “It seems much too early for a lady to be about her business, whatever that may be,” Dirick commented, squinting in the dim light.

  “Aye,” she replied. “But ’tis the quietest part of the day, and I wished to see about Hickory’s foreleg.”

  It was starting to get lighter, and the dark grey shadows began to take on muted colors and details as they stood in the stable. Dirick could see that Maris’s hair was uncovered, hanging in a fat braid over one shoulder. He felt a strange intimacy with her, seeing her hair. Although many maids at court had begun to disdain the covering wimples, it was obvious that in Merle’s household they were standard ware, for both ladies had worn them last night. He couldn’t tell what color Maris’s braid was, though, and for some reason, he needed to know.

  “And the night?” Dirick asked pointedly. “Is that also a quiet time for a noble lady to go about her business?”

  She had cocked her head like a falcon, as if trying to read the second meaning in his words. “Aye, there are times my tasks take me out in the night.”

  “And what is it that brings the Lady of Langumont to walk the streets—alone—in the darkness?” He held her gaze steadily in the dimness, determined to receive an answer as to what she’d been doing on her own in the village in the middle of the night.

  To his surprise, she laughed. “Ah, Sir Dirick, are you so protective of my reputation that you refuse to go to Papa with your evil suspicions? But of course you do not wish your betrothed to be seen wandering the streets at night—at the least, if you do not know the reason why.” Her hand came to rest lightly on his arm as she became serious. “Do you not fear for my reputation, Sir Dirick. I but came from the bedside of the cooper’s wife, after that long, difficult day of birthing her sons. I fear I was not in the best of tempers when you bore down on me.”

  The dawn broke over Dirick so that he almost missed the detail one of her comments. “Please accept my apologies for my rude behavior,” he said with chagrin, then, as his mouth caught up with his brain, he repeated incredulously, “Betrothed?”

  Maris had returned to stroking Hickory’s nose, turning her back to him as if to hide her expression. “Aye, sir, ’tis not a secret that you are here to speak on my hand. ’Tis—”

  “How came you by such a notion?” Dirick exclaimed. To speak of a marriage contract only the day after meeting Lord Merle and his daughter was, to the least, embarrassingly rude. Beside that, marriage was the last thing on his mind—he had no lands to bring a wife, nor any wish to be saddled with one woman when God had put so many beautiful ones on His earth. “My lady, ’tis not at all the purpose of my visit.”

  “Forgive me,” Maris broke in, relief and mortification in her voice. “I meant not to be—I bethought you were the man to which Papa means to betrothe me.”

  “Your papa did say you are not yet betrothed,” he told her, regaining his faculties. Now he recalled Lord Merle’s missive from the day before, and the imminent arrival of the betrothal candidate. ’Twas an honest mistake on the lady’s part.

  “Nay, I am not yet betrothed, nor am I desirous of having my person bartered over,” Maris replied tartly. She looked up at him, and he was surprised to be able to make out the shape and the flecks of green in her eyes now, in the dawning light. “Papa has stopped urging me to find a man to my liking.” Her face fell, and she returned to stroking Hickory’s velvet nose, “Because I have not made a decision, he has chosen my husband.”

  Dirick was taken aback by her forthright opinions. Most maids were at the least betrothed by age fifteen, and a good majority of them wed, and before him stood a woman of more than seventeen summers calmly declaring she had not found a man to her liking and was unlikely to do so. It was unnatural.

  Maris inter
rupted his thoughts. “What, then, do you here at Langumont if not to look me over, check my teeth, and set a dower price?”

  Dirick managed to neither smile nor grimace at her words, which made the whole process sound callous. “As your father said last evening, I am lately come from Paris and travel through the area, looking to work for a lord such as your father.”

  “Aye?” she asked, an odd tone in her voice. “It seems you have much knowledge of Henry’s court for one come so newly from France.”

  “King Louis keeps many eyes on the court of the man who stole his wife,” Dirick replied smoothly.

  “Such beautiful horseflesh you have for an itinerant knight,” she said.