A Whisper of Rosemary (The Medieval Herb Garden Series)

by Colleen Gleason

  “Nay, Sir Dirick,” she said, struggling to her feet with a dazed look on her face. “Have no worries that I’ll bring tales to my papa,” she said, brushing two fingers lightly over her full mouth. “I allowed you leave to kiss me only to have some questions of my own answered.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her, ignoring the throbbing between his legs and trying to act as cool as she. “And did you have your questions answered?” he replied.

  “Aye,” she breathed, still touching her mouth unconsciously, “aye, that I did.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  At dinner that evening, Maris avoided looking at Sir Dirick.

  He sat on the far side of Merle, sharing a trencher with Lady Allegra. The two men, seated next to each other, were engrossed in conversation regarding the latest news that had come in from Westminster—the king’s call to arms for his battle to subdue Geoffrey of Anjou.

  Though he sat away from her, and she couldn’t see him unless she leaned around her father, Maris was as aware of Dirick’s presence as if he’d brushed against her. His hands, serving Allegra and himself, moved in and out of her view, and she found herself watching them, noticing their tanness, the short, clean fingernails, the molding of muscle and tendon and sprinkling of dark hair, the way the sleeve of his tunic fell back to expose a narrow, tanned wrist.

  She heard him laugh—a low, masculine, husky laugh that heightened her awareness of him. His conversation carried over the noise of the meal, collecting in her consciousness, as close to her as if he whispered in her ear. The cadence of his voice, rising and falling as he alternately admired and charmed Allegra, and debated and argued with Merle, was soothing and exciting and haunting.

  A simple kiss…a simple kiss had made her as aware of him as she’d become aware of herself.

  Even now, her fingers trembled when she remembered the heat, the shock of pleasure that took her by surprise and made her body come alive. Warm, demanding lips and the hard strength of his body were enough to steal her breathing and pool desire into the center of her being.

  Even now, she felt the stirring of desire, the flutter of arousal in her middle.

  The memory of his lips still burned on her mouth as she sipped from her wine. She wanted to taste him again. She wanted to know if the kiss they had shared could be duplicated, if it would be the same charge of energy should it happen again.

  Casting a covert look in his direction, she saw him leaning flirtatiously toward her mother, a smirk curling his mouth, and realized suddenly, with a cold shock, that he was most likely well accustomed to kissing maidens in the wood. That knowledge settled in her middle like a large chunk of bread and she turned away to sip from her goblet.

  It was her own doing, she reprimanded herself, for she had wanted to kiss him, and had known he wanted to kiss her when he helped to pull her to her feet. She’d welcomed the chance to see if kissing was any better now that she was older than when her father’s squire Raymond of Vermille had stolen a kiss from her years ago.

  It was.

  “Daughter, are you ill?” her father asked suddenly, turning his attention to her, and startling her from her own thoughts. “You are no louder than a mouse this night.”

  “Nay, Papa,” she gave him a soft smile. “’Twas a long and wretched day, for I could not save the cooper’s wife.”

  His face sobered. “Ah, aye, Father Abraham’s servant sent word to me.”

  Maris pushed back the sadness that threatened to bring tears back to her eyes and replied, “There was naught I could do.”

  He smoothed a comforting hand over her arm. “I know you did all you could, dearling.”

  “They had a leech in!” she said, her grief replaced by anger. “It was the cause of it, and still the villagers won’t listen.

  He shook his head. “Maris, I know Venny taught you well, and he knows many things, but there are others—leeches—that know medicine as well. They are not always bad.”

  “I have yet to meet one that has not worsened the situation,” she told him defiantly.

  Her father tsked, for they had had this conversation many times. Obviously knowing that neither of them would win the argument, he said, “I am sorry that she died. I will send three chickens to the cooper on the morrow, and visit on Justice Day. Is the smith’s daughter still wet nursing the babes?”

  “Aye. She will do a fine job, and mayhap the cooper and she will marry. She is of an age, and lost her own husband to the fever several moons ago.” She flickered a glance at Dirick, who was mooning over her mother’s slim hand, then looked back at her father. “I’ve brewed some fresh tea from the bearberry bush for you this night.” She patted his arm lightly. “I know you’re in need of it, for Mama told me this morn in Mass. The leaves are fresh and the tea is strong. I’ll have Verna bring it to your chamber when you retire.”

  “Thank you, dearling. Though I despise the taste of it, I cannot complain about the good your bearberry tea does for my pains. Have Verna bring it to me anon, and I vow I’ll drink it.”

  “Very well, Papa. I shall hold you to that vow,” Maris said as she stood. “I must see to Maisie’s daughter, for she’s not feeling well, and then I will brew your tea,” she explained, carefully avoiding any more than a brief glance at Dirick. “Good night, Sir Dirick, good night, Mama.” She bent over to kiss her father on his cheek, then she turned to walk from the hall.

  Dirick watched her go. He’d spent the entire meal alternately cursing and congratulating himself for seizing the opportunity to taste those lovely lips. He was not an impulsive man when it came to women. He took his time, wooing and flattering, teasing and titillating a woman until she was like a ripe peach falling into his hand. There were plenty of willing women, ladies and whores alike, that made themselves available and giving him no cause to take chase. That was the way he preferred it.

  Nevertheless, not only had he enjoyed his day at Maris’s side, but he knew he would kiss her again—betrothed or nay.

  She had just disappeared into the kitchen and the hall was beginning to quiet down when the messenger made his appearance.

  Most of the men-at-arms had retired from bawdy conversation and raucous story telling to the beds of whores, chess and dice games, or the night watch. Dirick himself was ready to find his own pallet when the seneschal approached Merle.

  “My lord, a messenger at the gate brings tidings to our guest, Sir Dirick de Arlande.” The man stood silently, waiting permission to call the messenger within.

  All thoughts of sleep and of Lady Maris’s luscious mouth fled Dirick’s mind to be replaced by anxiety. The news must be bad indeed for a messenger to track him whilst on a secret mission for the king. Fresh from the experience of having news of his father’s death brought in the same way, he was immediately concerned.

  Merle nodded his assent to the seneschal, who disappeared to retrieve the messenger. The moments that passed until his reappearance seemed an age to Dirick as he forced nonchalance, sipping more ale. At last the messenger appeared, and Dirick’s concern was heightened when he recognized a man-at-arms of his brother Bernard, now the Lord of Derkland.

  “The message I bear is best given in private,” the messenger said as he approached the high table.

  “Then let us step to a private corner.” Dirick stood, his mouth compressed and his middle roiling.

  The man followed him to a dark, chilly corner of the room and Dirick rounded on him as soon as they were out of earshot of the others. “What is the news, Sir Ivan?”

  “Lord Bernard sent me thus—”

  “He is well then? Bernard is well? Is it Thomas? Speak, man!”

  “Aye, your brothers are well, and—”

  “Mother! ’Tis not Mother?” Dirick’s body turned cold. Her grief over the loss of her husband had been deep and long. Had her broken heart weakened her?

  “Nay, nay Sir Dirick—all is well.” The emphasis on these last words at last penetrated and Dirick’s tension eased.

  “Well, man, y
ou nearly affrighted me into an earlier grave than I should wish! What news is it that Bernard should send you to find me whilst on the king’s business?” He held his hand out for the missive.

  “’Tis not writ,” Ivan told him. “Lord Bernard didn’t wish to chance the wrong eyes to see it and alert them of your assumed identity. He learned a story from a traveling knight who stopped at Derkland en route to the king. Upon hearing the details of your father’s murder” —Ivan crossed himself— “this man, Samuel of Lederwyrth, told the tale of another murder thus.”

  Ivan began to speak from memory, his eyes glazing over as he recited the message:

  “He came upon a terrible sight near London, nearly two leagues south of the city. It was obviously the scene of a robbery. There were two men dead and picked bare of their valuables. Both lay on the ground, facedown, in the most odd position: with their arms positioned as if their hands had been joined or clasped as they died. One of the men, knights they were both” —Ivan crossed himself again— “had been stabbed so as to leak blood for hours, and his throat cut. He was placed in the ground with his face in the dirt—”

  “And his neck broken by the hoof of a horse, and his face pulled back so that his forehead touched the sky?” Dirick felt his heavy meal surge in his stomach.

  Ivan shook his head, his eyes coming into focus again. “Nay, though a there was the imprint of a horse’s hoof deep in his back.”

  Dirick closed his eyes as the image of his father’s similar fate swam into his memory. Nay, he hadn’t been tortured by seeing it himself, but he could imagine it all too well.

  “My lord Bernard bade me also tell you of the horse found on the scene. ’Twas a fine horse with two legs broken, and it was hobbled to a tree. The horse had died thus.” Ivan’s face mirrored the horror that Dirick felt—but there was still more to tell. He drew forth a small bundle from the deepest folds of his cloak and offered it to Dirick. “The knight also showed Lord Bernard this, which was found embedded in a tree above the horse.”

  Dirick’s hands trembled slightly as he held them out to catch the object rolling from the cloth.

  The item was a wicked looking dagger. Dirick caught it easily in his hands, measuring the blade against the length of his hand from wrist to the tip of his longest finger.

  The blade was silver, and the tip had been nicked off so that instead of a perfect point, it ended in a jagged edge. The dagger’s handle was wrought of silver filigreed roses intertwined with serpents, the blooms as true to life as the sharp thorns, as wicked as the slithering serpents. A small crystal was set in the end of the handle and it glittered in the light of the blazing fire.

  “I’ve seen naught like this workmanship,” he murmured, gazing at the dagger for a long moment. He turned it over and over in his hands as if willing it to speak. At last, looking up at Ivan he asked, “What said my brother—shall I send this back with you to go to the king?”

  Ivan shook his head, “Nay, my lord—Lord Bernard wished you to keep the dagger if you thought it of use to you. The king bade him send it to you.”

  “Good.” Dirick wrapped the knife in its cloth and tucked it into his tunic. “This Samuel of Lederwyth—where did he come from? I should like to speak with him.”

  “He hails from the southern lands—near London. Lord Bernard sent word to the king, who ordered him to tell you.”

  Dirick was nodding. “Aye. This dagger will do me more good than his majesty, and mayhap soon I will have an identity to this mad killer now that we have something of his.” He looked down at the elegant, murderous weapon.

  A wave of rage flooded him and his determination to find his father’s killer settled in the forefront of his mind.

  Dirick suspected he would sleep ill this night.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Verna pulled the mantle more closely about her face, pushing back the hank of hair that threatened to obscure her vision. She trudged through the drifts, stepping carefully over the branches of the deepest part of the forest bordering Langumont Village. Her burden was secured tightly at her waist with a heavy cord, and she patted it several times to assure herself of its continued presence.

  After a very long walk, Verna at last came upon a tiny hut nearly hidden in the trees. She shivered, but, gathering her courage up with her wrap, she approached the hovel. The forest was deathly still. Even the birds were silent. She glanced over her shoulder, half expecting a red eyed wolf to be watching.

  Something touched her leg through the long cloak that caught in the snow. Verna leapt back before she could catch herself, nearly tripping over a huge black cat.

  It hissed at her, then eased through a crack into the hut as Verna stilled in frozen trepidation. Her eyes wide, she stared at the hut, wondering if the cat had been the old crone herself.

  Her fears were justified when, moments later, without her even raising her hand to knock, the door swung silently open. No one was there. She didn’t move except to clutch at the packet hanging from her side.

  At last she took a hesitant step forward, and then another, until she could see into the dark, cavern like interior. The only light came from a blazing fire in the far corner.

  “Are ye comin’ in er not?” a voice suddenly shrieked.

  Verna started, but was galvanized to move forward. “Dame Marthe,” she whispered, crossing the threshold into the meager hovel.

  Inside, she found a room filled with an assortment of tables and stools, and each stick of furniture was cluttered with crude wooden bowls and utensils. A heavy odor pervaded the room, and she saw what looked like the remains of several animals on a nearby table. The huge black cat was nowhere to be seen.

  At first, Verna didn’t see the tiny, wizened lady ensconsed in a corner chair. But when her eyes finally rested on Dame Marthe, they were held there by a cold, rheumy blue pair. The crone’s face had more lines in it than a linen altar cloth, and her mouth was yet one more deep line. Spidery wrinkles radiated from the place her lips would be, and when she opened the lipless orifice to speak, Verna caught a glimpse of one stump of a tooth.

  “My, my! A pretty lady has come to call!” the hag cackled with poorly concealed distaste. “And who might ye be?”

  Verna swallowed, but forced herself to speak with confidence. “Verna of Langumont,” she answered. “Lady of Langumont.”

  Overcome with mirth, Dame Marthe nearly fell off her rickety stool. “Lady of Langumont in a pig’s eye, ye are!” she returned harshly. “Ye’re no more The Lady than I am the Blessed Virgin!”

  Verna nearly winced at the blasphemy. She’d deviated too much to devote any thought to such mundane cares as blasphemes. “I shall be Lady of Langumont, old woman—my time will come. My time will come with help from you.”

  The hag contained her laughter; then her runny eyes narrowed. Mucus spilled out of them, running into the deep crevices in her cheeks. “Verna, ye say? Verna of the miller, might ye be?”

  The maidservant nodded slowly, “Aye, dame. If you know of me…then you know of my plight. I have brought something to you. I am in need of assistance, old woman. You will be well rewarded upon completion of this deed.”

  She pulled from her waist a cloth wrapped package. With a swift flick of her wrist, she opened it and a cloth of gold snood tumbled onto the dirty table. “And when we are through today,” she looked expectantly at Dame Marthe, “you shall tell my future.”

  ~*~

  It was more than a se’ennight past Christ’s Mass and Lord Merle’s return to Langumont. One afternoon, shortly after the midday meal, Merle sighed and adjusted himself in his chair.

  Allegra looked up, wondering if his wound still pained him. “Husband, may I pour thee more ale? Thy cup is near empty.” She was seated in the chair next to him, working on her embroidery. The dais on which they sat was near the fire, yet not near enough to be well lit. Merle had had torches and candles on tall stands set about so that his wife did not have to strain her eyes.

  “Aye, love, more ale
. And mayhap some cheese?”

  “Of course, my lord husband.” Allegra provided him with his wishes as he watched Maris and Dirick play a game of chess.

  Allegra didn’t play chess; she found it too daunting to keep in mind all of the pieces and they way they marched across the board—let alone planning one’s moves several steps in advance. But based on the number of pieces collected on each side of the table, their daughter was giving the handsome knight a bit of a challenge in the game.

  Just settling back in her chair, Allegra was startled by a quiet voice in her ear. “My lady Allegra.” Turning, she found Maris’s maidservant, Verna.