At last. At last.
At the urging of his wicked fingers, she spread her legs and suddenly he filled her as he’d done eighteen years earlier. He breathed her name as his fingers threaded through the mass of curls that was her hair. Allegra raked her fingers down the length of his back, gouging his skin when she felt him climax, shuddering against her.
Tears shimmered in her eyes when they opened as he pulled away to sit up moments later. “Michael…I have missed thee so,” she told him.
He didn’t have a chance to answer, for at that moment Maella burst into the room, stopping short at the sight that greeted her. Allegra had rolled to her knees as Michael left her body, but her hair and clothing were disheveled and there were wet marks on her bliaut.
“Aye, Maella?” Allegra asked sharply to hide her guilt. She hadn’t thought to bolt the door, it had all happened so quickly. Her lips tight, she struggled to her feet. Knowing that her maidservant was loyal to her above all gave her the courage to act as if nothing had happened.
“My lord Merle wishes to see you in the hall,” her servant told her pointedly. “He bade me finish bathing Lord d’Arcy and send you to speak with him.”
“My lord Michael’s tunic and hose rest by the fire,” Allegra said with as much grace as she could muster as she fled the room.
Maella, in turn, gave Michael a hard look as she proceeded to clothe him in silence.
CHAPTER EIGHT
That evening, Maris returned from the village in just enough time to change from an herb stained over tunic to a well laced bliaut of cinnamon colored wool with gold embroidery.
Her day had been a fine one for the sun had shone gloriously, melting the snow into wet, sticky masses. She’d spent the morning in the herbary, preparing tonics and poultices for her first trip into the Village since her near drowning. Then, her leather bag filled with dried herbs and small bottles of medicines and tonics, she slipped out of the dark keep into the sharp, clean air.
Drawing a deep breath, Maris started across the bailey with brisk steps. The morning sun in her eyes, she nevertheless noticed her father’s men gathered to practice their art of warfare. She would have passed them by with naught but a bare glance except that her gaze was drawn to one mock battle.
Maris stopped, curious, and recognized Dirick matched against Raymond of Vermille. Dirick had tossed his dark tunic aside and wore only a sleeveless linen pelisson and close fitting woolen chausses. The swords flashed, catching the rays of the sun with each twist and thrust, arms and legs moving in perfect accord.
In spite of her other tasks, Maris’s attention focused on Dirick, admiring his grace and relentless power as he drove her father’s best swordsman back into the crowd of bystanders.
She leaned against the stone wall, watching from the shadows. She couldn’t help but study every fluid motion as Dirick’s breeches clung and loosened, embraced and released his powerful legs. When the chausses tightened over his thighs during one forceful lunge, she swallowed deeply, her hand clutching the leather sack.
Sweat gleamed on his tanned arms, trickling over the ridges of muscle and tendon to fling into the air as he parried Raymond’s skillful sword. Sun and shadow played over his huge arms and glistened on hair sprinkled forearms. Maris’s throat grated when she tried to swallow. He was beautiful, godlike, graceful…masculine.
She could not pull her attention away, even when she felt her father’s gaze shift briefly to her. The dark haired warrior fought on, ignoring the bystanders, unaware of Maris’s own presence—even disregarding the thick hank of hair that dripped sweat into his eyes. Intensity furrowed his face. His eyes, hooded from the sun, did not waver from his opponent. Dirick’s full lips—those same ones that had so sweetly kissed her—were now tight with concentration, perfectly sculpted in his granite face. Chin thrust forward, he pushed a grunt of exertion from his chest, and veins and tendons coursed his neck as he rounded ferociously upon Raymond, driving him back, back, back—in one powerful pass.
A sword clattered to the ground and with a bellow of triumph, Dirick raised his own weapon aloft, then dropped his arms to his sides and stood, breathing heavily. A victorious grin lit his face and he swiped the hair out of his eyes amid the whoops and hollers of the spectators.
As he turned to acknowledge the ring of men clustered around him, Maris spun on her heel, hurrying away before he could notice her goggling at him. She rushed out of the bailey, barely greeting the guards at the portcullis, and hastened into the Village.
Though she busied herself for the rest of the day by visiting the ill and making suggestions to the village goodwives, Maris’s thoughts returned again and again to the powerful, agile knight. She’d spent time with him, teasing and conversing as if he were little but a squire or an ordinary man-at-arms…but now…now she could see him as naught but a fierce warrior, harsh and ruthless, relentless…formidable…manly.
Her breaths became shallow. A warrior had kissed her with gentleness. ’Twas impossible to reconcile the tenderness and warmth of that kiss after seeing what great strength he owned.
Maris brushed her fingers over her own lips, remembering the surprise of desire welling inside her on that crisp, cold day. Even the memory of it made her fingers tremble. And she knew he would kiss her again, given the chance. That truth had been evident in his gaze yesterday, when she sat to play chess with him. She swallowed, remembering the heat smoldering in those thick lashed, silver black eyes.
Another truth became known to her, suddenly and with a shock of heat. Should he try to kiss her again, she would not deny him. Maris shivered.
A noise behind her jerked Maris’s thoughts back to the present, back to her chamber, where she was dressing for dinner.
Verna stood beside her, offering a wimple and looking at her with an odd expression. Pulling to her feet, she took the wisp of cloth and started from her chamber.
Hurrying down the dark stone stairs, she tucked her thick hair into the sheer wimple, and entered the hall just as the meal began. As she pushed her way among the serfs that served the food, and between the rows of trestle tables, Maris saw the two strange men sitting with her parents and Sir Dirick on the dais. Her heart leapt into her throat and she almost stopped in the center of the hall. Could the man her father intended for her have arrived so soon?
Merle rose as Maris approached the table. “Ah, at last, my daughter joins us.”
“I’m sorry to be late, Papa,” she said as she made a neat curtsey. Although she didn’t look up, she felt the absence of Dirick’s attention on her, and at the same time, the weight of attention from the newcomers.
“Come dearling, let me make you known to Lord Michael d’Arcy of Gladwythe,” and he continued, “…and his son, Sir Victor.”
The emphasis Merle placed on those last words was enough to confirm her suspicion. Victor d’Arcy was the man he’d chosen for her betrothed. The band of discomfort tightened around her chest and she found herself hardly able to swallow past the lump in her throat.
When she glanced at her father before turning to greet the men, she saw a hint of warning in his eyes, an expectation that she should act accordingly.
Maris masked her anxiety and extended her hand first to Lord Michael and then to his son. The elder d’Arcy seemed to hold her fingers longer than necessary before pressing a kiss to her palm.
Victor clasped her hand lightly, and his lips brushed the inside of her wrist. “My lady, I have already prepared the most tender pieces of capon and removed all bones from the fish,” he told her, patting the seat between himself and her father.
Maris leaned over before taking her seat to greet the other guest at table. “Good evening, Sir Dirick,” she said.
“My lady,” he replied. His gaze was cool and flat, as if they were strangers and had never even spoken.
Stung by his curtness, Maris sank onto her seat next to Victor and forced herself to smile at him. Steeling all of her composure, she gathered her wits and courage and dutifully
began to play the part in which she’d been cast.
~*~
Edwin Baegot entered the great hall of Breakston’s keep to find his friend and lord, Bon de Savrille, in an uproar.
“At last he deigns to grace us with his presence!” Bon bellowed drunkenly when Edwin was announced.
The man was sprawled on a heavy oaken chair that would have rivaled Henry Plantagenet’s throne had someone the urge to move them side by side. His buff colored tunic, embroidered with red stags and stallions, was stained and hung haphazardly over his broad shoulders. The cross garters that should have kept the hose fitted to his legs had drooped into a pile just above his ankles.
“Greetings, my lord,” Edwin gave a short little bow, then turned to help himself to a cup of ale.
“What news of my bride have you?” demanded Bon, sitting straighter in his chair. “It has been a se’ennight since I left you in Langumont.”
“My lord,” Edwin paused and swallowed. The news he bore would not be well-received. He looked about to see what might be within arms’ reach of his friend and could be flung at him.
But before he could speak, Bon shouted, “My lute, Agnes, fetch me my lute!”
A curvaceous young woman with a long purple scar on her face hurried to do his bidding. She brought the instrument forward and knelt at his feet, rubbing her head against his leg as a kitten.
“Ah, my lady love…” Bon sighed, his bleary eyes gazing into the distance. “How I pine for her! Edwin, by my troth, I cannot wait for much longer to have my hands on that delicious piece.” He strummed a chord on the lute, his face taking on a mournful expression. “’Twas, at the first, her lands—my lands—that I wished to regain. But now” —another chord accompanied his wistful words— “’tis more than mere wealth.”
There was silence as Bon slopped another long gulp of wine down his throat, nevertheless taking care not to spill any on the beautifully carved lute. He pulled the goblet away with a gusty sigh. “My lust for material goods has grown to full, mature love, Edwin,” Bon told him earnestly, his lips and tongue thick with drink, his gaze foggy. “I cannot live without her….”
Edwin rolled his eyes and finished off more ale. He might as well drink and relax, for the bad news would wait on the morrow.
Although, come to think of it, telling Bon that Lady Maris was to be wed to a man of Merle Lareux’s choice on the morrow when the man was recovering from tonight’s overindulgence could be painful.
Edwin looked up. God’s bones, his master was a pussy when he imbibed in too much wine. He would have to ask the castellan to stop importing that red wine from Bordeaux—it made Bon impossible to live with. He was glad English brewed ale did not affect his master in such a way.
“Do ye hear what I say, Edwin?” Bon’s words were hardly discernible and his hand flopped awkwardly on the table. “Listen you, I have written a song for my beloved. I shall play it for her on my wedding night.”
Drunk as he was, Bon’s short fingers stumbled agilely over the strings of the lute and the resulting melody was surprisingly moving. He sang in a careful, off key voice, obviously making up the words as he went along:
O, Lady of the Fairest, I praise thy beauty…The clouds will cry for thee, for they see not such grace in heav’n….Thy face, thy voice make my heart swell with joy, and on thy wedding day, thee shall have my love for’er more….
“She would make more than my heart swell,” Edwin mumbled into his ale. Fortunately, Bon didn’t hear him, for he was well into his second pitiful verse.
As Bon continued his tribute to his intended, the men-at-arms crept one by one from the hall. His verses became more and more redundant, and of the worst poetry, and Edwin was forced to be subjected to the poor musicality of his master. Once, he dared to rise from his seat, hoping to follow suit of the other cowards that had since left him alone in the room, but a look from Bon froze him in his tracks. Edwin sank onto a cushioned chair, and, refilling his ale cup yet again, prepared himself for a long night.
And an even longer morrow, when, with dawn, he must break the ill news to his master.
~*~
Merle strode across the parapets of Langumont Keep.
His breath blew like white smoke from the bristling hair that lined his mouth, and a winter breeze brushed his thinning hair. The men at arms that stood at the north and south ends of the roof of the keep stoked small fires to warm their hands, nodding to their lord as he walked past them.
A sliver of moon cut the deep blue sky, and hundreds of stars twinkled above. Merle stopped at the southeast corner of the parapet, looking into the darkness over the vast lands that he was blessed to rule. They stretched as far as one could see from this vantage point. Lands that he loved nearly as much as his daughter.
He drew in a deep breath that was so cold it hurt the deepest part of his lungs, then exhaled strongly. Somewhere, out in that darkness, was the great channel he’d crossed once to France. If he listened closely, he’d hear the crashing waves upon the cliffs. He stopped breathing, just to hear the sound.
A movement from the corner of his eye drew Merle’s attention. Turning, he found that Sir Dirick had come pell mell around the corner, then came to a stop when he caught sight of his host.
“My lord,” Dirick said, clearly uncomfortable.
“Nay, Dirick, you do not disturb me. Come.” Merle smiled at a sudden thought. “Unless ’tis you who does not wish to be disturbed.”
“Nay, my lord. ’Tis just that I did not expect to come upon you. I…wished…thought to be alone. I am glad for your company.”
Merle beckoned him closer, gesturing out into the darkness. “See you here, Dirick…. See you all of the blessings that have been bestowed upon me.”
Dirick looked out into the dark, though Merle knew he was unable to see far in the dim, starry night. “You’re worthy of them, my lord,” he said quietly.
“Listen and you can hear the sea…it has been the cause of the wealth that has come to me. My father’s grandfather was a Saxon thegn, betrothed to the daughter of a Norman lord in great favor with The Conqueror. My great grandfather’s land, here near the sea, was a most important fief. Since the day my great grandfather wed with Lord Humphrey’s daughter, Margaret, this keep and this fief have served the King of England with no regret, and no hesitation—even when Stephen of Blois ruled, and ruined, this land.”
Merle was silent for a moment, aware that he’d thrust his pensive mood and meandering thoughts upon his companion. Then he gave a short, bitter laugh. “Forgive me, Dirick, but my solemnity comes from the knowledge that my beloved Maris will soon belong to another man….and these lands will someday be ruled by another.” He took a deep breath, shaking himself from his melancholy. His decision was good. It was the best he could wish for Maris.
Yet, of the man whom he’d come to know and respect, and one who was clearly a confidant of the king, Merle nevertheless felt compelled to ask, “What think you of my guests?”
“They seem pleasant dinner companions…full of much news…confident and brave.” In the faulty light, Merle saw his companion’s hands close over the roughness of the stone half wall.
“Yet you do not sound convinced,” he pressed. Then gave a wry chuckle. “Has my daughter complained to you?”
“My lady does not seem overfond of the idea of marriage,” Dirick admitted in dry tones.
“And you, ever the chivalrous knight, do not wish to see a damsel in distress.” Merle grinned, then sobered. He was full aware of the way Dirick’s eyes often settled on his daughter, and the way she tended to avoid looking at him…unless the man was turned in the other direction. “Aye, Maris has a way of manipulating even her father with her sad stories. ’Tis the best for her, I believe, Dirick. The world can be an unfriendly place, and I’ll not have her alone and vulnerable should aught happen to me.” His voice softened at the last.
“She may not understand my decision,” Merle continued, “but ’twill stand. I owe a great debt
to Michael d’Arcy…for ’twas because of him that I was able to return to my own once again. I was grievously wounded and Michael saved my life. For that blessing, I will bestow upon his son the greatest gift I have to give.”
Dirick nodded in acknowledgment, but remained silent.
Thus the men stood in the dark for a time, not speaking. A cold, brisk breeze ruffled their hair and the cloaks that huddled about their shoulders, yet each was lost in thought and ’twas as if the other were not present.
A Whisper of Rosemary (The Medieval Herb Garden Series) Page 11
