“Aye, Verna?”
“You are needed in the kitchen,” Verna whispered, tugging at her mistress’s sleeve.
“I am needed in the kitchen?” she repeated.
As they walked away from Merle, Verna spoke in a humble voice, “Aye, my lady, there is someone that has asked to speak with you. He did not wish Lord Merle to know of it.”
Fear gripped Allegra’s chest and she felt her heart thumping uncontrollably behind her ribs. She had hoped and prayed that Bon had forgotten his threat, or had given up when she had not responded.
In sooth, she had not had the courage to broach Merle on the subject of Maris’s betrothed, for she could not fathom a solution to the problem. If Maris married as her husband wished, Bon would make good on his threat to expose her true parentage. But Allegra could not allow her daughter to wed with her own half uncle—most especially to a man such as Bon de Savrille.
Nor, did it seem, that she would be able to sway her husband in a decision he had already made. Only this evening had Merle commented that the man he awaited should arrive on the morrow, and the contracts would shortly be signed.
In despair, Allegra recalled the day of her own wedding and the private vow she’d made that her daughter should never marry against her will. In all these years, Allegra had not forgotten Michael, nor had her love for the man she remembered dimmed.
Someday, she vowed, she would be with him again, or may God strike her dead. She had never grown to love Merle as she should. Although she’d been a good wife to him, and served him well, she did not feel the passion and blind love that she still harbored for Lord Michael.
The maid stopped just near the kitchen door, gesturing to the entrance to the bailey. “My lady, the man awaits near the stables. I did not wish to alarm you in Lord Merle’s presence.”
The wind was cold and Allegra had not pulled a cloak around her. Her dread grew, causing her stomach to churn, and she forced herself to walk across the courtyard, head bent. She shivered and stumbled to the stables, aware that Verna was no longer in her wake.
Stepping hesitantly inside, she breathed a sigh at the inherent warmth from the building filled with whuffling horses. The stable was dark, but a shadowy figure stood near the rear.
“What do you wish?” she asked in a quivery voice.
“My Lady Allegra,” a slight man stepped forward so that she could make out the barest of his features. “I bring you a token from my master.” He reached out, and she stepped back in alarm. He was, however, too quick for her reaction, and his fingers closed around her hand. Something heavy was pressed into her palm, then he closed her fingers tightly around it. Metal pressed into her tender palm and Allegra cried out at the pain.
The man laughed and leaned forward. “My master insists that if you do not heed his warning, you will be in much more pain. Good eve, my lady.” He pushed roughly past her and suddenly she was alone.
Allegra stumbled out of the dim stable moments later, still clutching the heavy metal object. The light of the moon led her through ankle deep snow to the chapel. Leaning on the heavy door, she nearly fell into the haven.
Candles flickered along the altar and at each corner of the chapel. Allegra slowly unfurled her clenched fingers. Even in the varying light, she was able to make out the markings on the heavy metal brooch. De Savrille.
If she’d had any doubt that Bon still intended to marry her daughter, that doubt was now gone.
~*~
The next day was unusually fair for January. The sun glared high in the sky, and the serfs and men-at-arms disdained cloaks and gloves alike as they went about their business.
Merle was in the bailey watching his men practice their swordplay when the visitors arrived. Dirick, who had just put his own sword down, looked up curiously as Gustave approached.
“My lord,” announced the seneschal, “the Lords d’Arcy have identified themselves at the portcullis. I shall show them to the great hall, and have them take their ease, but you wished to be informed upon their arrival.”
“Thank you, Gustave. Dirick, do you come with?”
“I’m certain you have much to discuss that does not concern me. Surely I can occupy myself until the evening meal so that I don’t interrupt your business.” Dirick wiped an arm across the sweat that trickled down his forehead, brushing his hair back in one slick motion.
“Nay, nay,” Merle said heartily—and so firmly that Dirick did not argue, “Come with me and meet my dear friend and his son. At the least, they shall have news, for they come from south of London, and will bring the latest from there.”
Merle led the way to the huge entrance of the keep, beckoning for Dirick to follow. Resigned, he pulled on his tunic and followed, wondering why Merle was so insistent that he meet his guests.
Inside the hall, Dirick sheathed his sword and rested it on one of the heavy oaken benches that lined a trestle table. Merle had already greeted the two men that were settled on stools in front of a blazing fire. Dirick approached, scrutinizing the Lords d’Arcy.
The elder—presumably the father—was comfortably sprawled on a three legged stool on which he sat tilted so far that his back rested against a nearby table. Pale, wheat colored hair hung in a cap just to his ears, cut straight across his forehead, and looking like a silvered helm. Pale blue eyes darted quickly to Dirick as he approached, then to Merle, then back to Dirick.
The younger visitor was definitely related to the elder: he had the same pale blue eyes that were colorless as ice, and thin wheat colored hair hung raggedly to his shoulders. He was a fairly large man—easily as tall as Dirick—with a tanned, square face and full lips.
As Dirick extended his hand to the father, he felt the gaze of the younger d’Arcy boring into him. An unaccountable sense of mislike swept over him and in a bald moment of self-recognition, Dirick understood why.
This man was to have Maris.
“Sir Dirick de Arlande, meet Lord Michael d’Arcy of Gladwythe and his son, Sir Victor.”
Dirick clasped the proffered wrist of Michael d’Arcy, feeling a renewed trickle of unease at the strange light in his pale eyes. Had the man a fever, or was he merely tired from travel?
Then he turned to greet the son, hiding his reluctance and sudden dislike. “Sir Victor,” he said, taking his time to observe the other man while he tried to place the familiar name.
“Sir Dirick de Arlande,” mused Lord Michael, running a finger slowly over his full lower lip. “I do not believe I have heard mention of you at court.”
“Nay,” Dirick’s lips thinned in a cool smile, “’tis not likely, as I am lately come from Paris, and have not spent time in the court of your Plantagenet.” His words carried the authentic French accent he’d become accustomed to while serving the queen in Aquitaine. He was determined not to divulge his true relationship with the king and queen.
Merle stepped in. “Sir Dirick has pleaded succor during his journey through England. I have kept him quite busy at Langumont for the past fortnight.”
Michael drank from a warmed goblet of wine, then, daintily wiping his lips and the tips of his fingers, glanced around the hall. “And where might the fair Lady Maris be? I am keen to meet her. As, I am certain, is Victor.”
Dirick accepted, and acknowledged, the little tic of annoyance at the reminder of the impending betrothal—then ruthlessly dismissed it. Why should he waste any thought or concern that the man was to wed Maris of Langumont?
The lady was not hard on the eyes—and quite delicious on the lips—but Dirick had no further interest in her, even if he wished to wed. Aye, she was a fair chess player and quick of wit, but it was of no difference to Dirick. He had a task to complete, for both his king and his father—and he’d wasted more than enough time here at Langumont.
Just then, Merle called across the room, “Allegra, wife, come attend our guests!”
The frail woman had just entered the hall, likely having been drawn from her solar at the arrival of the honored guests. She gli
ded across the rush strewn floor.
Merle reached out for her hand and drew her into the circle of men around the fire as she looked up. “Wife, do you meet Sir Victor d’Arcy and his father, Lord Michael of Gladwythe.”
Dirick’s attention was on Allegra as she curtsied and nodded to her future son by law. She turned to Michael, and Dirick saw her eyes go wide, her mouth open in a silent gasp, and he watched as she crumpled slowly to the floor.
Instantly, the room was astir. Merle leapt to his feet, bellowing, staring down helplessly at the small heap at his feet. Michael’s face had registered no shock, and, in fact, Dirick noticed that he was the calmest of the bunch, leaning forward to ease Allegra by loosening the ties of her bliaut.
By the time Dirick had taken in these jumbled facts, Widow Maggie and Maella had scurried to their mistress’s side. The healer waved a small bouquet of herbs in front of Allegra’s nose, and Dirick was gratified to see her stir.
Allegra’s eyes fluttered open and her gaze rested upon the face that was nearest hers, one that was bent over her in concern.
Her lips moved and although he couldn’t hear the syllables, Dirick read the word on her lips. Michael.
Michael D’Arcy’s name. Dirick felt a prickle of interest and foreboding, and glanced at Merle. But the elder man’s face showed only concern as he assisted Lady Allegra to her feet.
“Allegra, are you ill? Is there aught can be done?” he was saying solicitously.
“Nay,” she replied. “Nay, my lord, I—’twas just a spell of dizziness.” She drew a shuddering breath and pulled herself to her full height, stiltedly keeping her eyes from Lord Michael.
The maid, Maella, had a stricken look on her face, and Widow Maggie was pressing a steaming draught upon her lady. “Shall I call for Lady Maris to attend our guests?” asked Maella.
“Nay. Nay,” Allegra forced herself to sound calm, forced the spots that danced before her eyes to disappear. She could not bring Maris into this mess until she thought how to handle it. “Maris is in the Village,” she explained, “And the ache in my head has gone.” She made a smile of her lips, and bravely turned to look at Michael.
Oh, God, it’s Michael. After so many years, how have You delivered him to me?
“May I offer my lord to bathe?” she said, trying not to sound too eager. “You are likely weary from your long journey.”
“Aye, a bath would be more than I could hope for!”
Allegra remembered their other guest and turned to the younger man. “I cannot attend thee myself, Sir Victor, but a bath will be prepared for you as well.”
“’Twould be most welcome. Mayhaps Lady Maris could attend me,” Victor suggested.
Merle spoke. “Maris is in the village, tending to the sick. I’ve sent a man at arms to fetch her, but likely she will not return until the evening meal.”
“Very well,” Victor replied, his disappointment obvious.
But Allegra gave little care to young man’s discomfort. One of the maids could see to him; there were plenty who would do. She had only one thought in her mind, and that was of Michael.
Here. Now.
Praying that her face didn’t show the high color that heated it, and that her husband had noticed nothing untoward, she led their guest out of the great hall to one of the large guest chambers.
Moments later, they were alone except for the serfs, bringing buckets upon buckets of steaming water for his bath.
Allegra could not stop her fingers from shaking as she unlaced Michael’s cross garters. She had to force her attention to the task, else her fingers would travel up the curve of his calves to relearn their strength.
To touch him.
How can this be? How can this be? Her mind chanted the phrase, echoing the incredulity that swept through her each time she looked at the man she had pined for, fantasized about, and begged God for since marrying Lord Merle more than seventeen years ago. How could he come here, be here…and plan to marry his son to his own daughter?
Allegra tamped back the panic and instead centered her thoughts on the fact that he had finally come to her. That he was here.
For of course. Michael did not know that Maris was his daughter. She’d tell him and then all would be well. And then, mayhap she could find some way to suggest Bon as a husband…. Nay. That she could not do. There would be another solution.
Michael would see to it.
A maidservant bustled about the small chamber, laying out a tunic and hose from Merle’s trunks to clothe Michael after his bath. Boys from the kitchen came and went with buckets of steaming water. Maella sprinkled dried lavender over the filling tub. The room was busy and crowded, so much so that it played upon Allegra’s nerves and it was all she could do to keep from screaming at them all to leave…to leave her alone with Michael.
“Maella, go you to see that Verna has found the other tub and is serving Sir Victor,” she said at last, uncaring of the shrewd look her maidservant flashed at her.
“Aye, my lady.” Maella reluctantly turned to leave, glancing at the two other maidservants who still assisted her mistress.
No sooner had Maella brushed out the doorway than Allegra found other contrived excuses to send the remaining servants away…and at last she found herself alone with Michael.
He rested comfortably in the tub that had been fashioned to hold a body as large as Merle’s, eyes closed restfully. A wad of soft linen propped his neck up from the rough wooden edge of the oval tub. Allegra knelt, folding his tunic, and watched as steam rose from the water. His fine blond hair was plastered to his neck, and the fine features she’d never forgotten were flushed with the heat. He breathed easily, and she allowed herself the luxury of remembering the warmth of his smooth, muscular chest.
As she watched, one ice blue eye slowly opened and his gaze rested knowingly upon her. “At last,” he murmured as a smile quirked his generous mouth. “I’d given up hope that we should be alone.”
“Aye,” Allegra breathed, clasping her hands in her lap to keep from stroking a thick lock of hair from his forehead.
His eyes, both fully opened now, greedily looked over his former lover. She knew she was still a very beautiful woman, and when he shifted in the tub, turning slightly to the side she was gratified that his response to her was as obvious and immediate as it had been eighteen years ago. “You’ve not changed much at all, Allegra,” he said quietly.
“Nor have thee.” Her chest swelled with love and affection, making it quite difficult to breathe.
“Come, soap my back,” he invited, and sat fully upright.
Allegra’s hands trembled as she drew a fine linen cloth from the water and over the large expanse of his back. There were more scars that marred its golden surface, and the ridges of muscle that she remembered were not as pronounced. But it was Michael.
The strong lye soap that was usually used for bathing had been replaced by one of Maris’s specialties: a rosemary basil scented soap. Its minty smell pervaded the air, accented by the steam rising from the scented bathwater. Michael eased back into the tub so that Allegra could massage his hair with the same soap. And when he closed his eyes, she wanted nothing more than to lean over and press a kiss to his lips.
She didn’t speak to him until she was nearly done scrubbing his body. Relearning every area, finding every new scar and marking.
At last she broke the silence. “Michael, did you—did you not know that Merle is my husband? Did you not know whence you came that I would be here?”
He stood at that moment, water cascading down the length of his slim, wiry body. Allegra’s breath caught in her throat, and she turned quickly to retrieve a cloth that had been warming by the fire. As he stepped onto a thick wool rug in front of the fireplace, he spoke, “Aye, my love, I’d hoped to see you again.”
Her hands, wrapped in the towel, smoothed over his legs and upward to his buttocks. She could not think, could not make sense of what he was doing here….
When she reached his
chest, she caressed his shoulders with the towel. “Allegra,” he said softly.
She tilted her head up and his arms suddenly wrapped around her waist, pulling her up against his body as he lowered his mouth to hers. With a moan of relief, she dropped the towel and found herself in his embrace. His damp body pressed into her bliaut and left marks at her breasts and thighs, and his arms slid into a taut band around her waist.
She’d felt nothing like this in her years of marriage to Merle. Aye, he’d been patient and slow when he thought she was a virgin, and, aye, he’d been tender with her and passionate during the nights they coupled…but he’d not been able to spark her insides as Michael had ever done.
His hands were on her breasts now, and his mouth left a moist trail on her neck. She felt his need pulsing against her thigh, and her hand slipped to touch him. Suddenly, they were on the floor in front of the fireplace, and she felt his hands moving up her legs. Michael’s weight pressed her head back onto the floor as he kissed her thoroughly. She was raising her hips to him even as he pushed her bliaut up to take two handfuls of bare breast and bring a nipple to his mouth. Allegra nearly screamed at the pleasure of it, her breath coming in small little pants.
A Whisper of Rosemary (The Medieval Herb Garden Series) Page 10
