A Whisper of Rosemary (The Medieval Herb Garden Series)

by Colleen Gleason

  When Merle was left alone in his chamber, he found himself unable to concentrate on the tasks at hand. His daughter’s fearful, yet resigned, face haunted him. Truly, was he doing right by her? Had he made the right decision?

  His mind wandered back to the evening he’d spent wandering the battlements of his beloved Langumont…and the conversation he’d exchanged with Dirick Derkland. Harold must have been very proud of his son, Merle thought to himself.

  Merle thought for a long time, all that day and for the remainder of the evening. He watched with a hawk’s eye the others at table with him: his wife and daughter, Michael and Victor d’Arcy.

  ~*~

  Maris braved the evening meal as she imagined her father would stand in battle. She was polite, if a little reserved to their guests, solicitous to her mother, who had insisted upon rising from her bed, and warm to her father.

  Yet the time to retire did not come too soon for her. She was anxious to be away from Victor’s proprietary gaze, anxious to have time to plan her next strategy. The betrothal ceremony would take place the next afternoon, and at that time, she would truly belong to Victor d’Arcy as completely as if she’d wed him. Maris was realistic enough to know that while she couldn’t stop the betrothal, or change her father’s mind, she might be able to delay it.

  Or, if she truly had no other choice, she thought, gnawing at her lower lip as she gathered her skirts to climb over the bench, she would find a way to make peace with Victor.

  “Good night, Papa,” she stopped behind her father’s chair at the fireside.

  He looked at her with sad, old eyes. “Daughter, I vow, all will be well. Know that I love you above all.”

  Tears skimmed the corners of her eyes: she loved and trusted her father. “Aye, Papa,” she said softly, trying to regain her composure. “I love you.”

  He pulled her nearly onto his lap in a bear hug, making her feel as if she were but three years of age. “I want only the best for you,” he told her yet again. “Believe you this. Good morrow, my daughter.”

  “Good morrow, Papa,” she pressed a kiss to his bristling cheek and swept from the room, dashing back the tears that once again threatened.

  In the privacy of her chambers, Maris found Verna strangely jumpy. “Go on,” she told her maid tiredly. “Get you to the man who waits you.”

  “Thank you, milady,” her servant told her, slipping from the room with undue haste.

  Maris collapsed on her bed, drawing thick furs up to cover her from head to toe. The fire that had been laid was burning merrily, and the chamber was not cold at all—still, she felt the need to hide from the world.

  She must have slept, for suddenly she was being shaken awake.

  “Milady,” whispered Verna urgently, shaking her shoulders rather too roughly. “Milady, you must come—Ernest of the hillock has been grievously injured.”

  Maris’s mind cleared of sleep instantly. She nearly leapt from the bed. “Please, Verna, my green overtunic,” she said, fumbling to draw her shoes on.

  “Nay, milady, there is no time,” Verna told her, pulling Maris’s blue cloak from a trunk. “Widow Maggie says you must come at once.”

  Maris tied her long hair into a knot and stuffed it into an enveloping scarf. Her servant moved closer to wrap her in the cloak. Quickly, she pulled the basket with her herbs from the nearby trunk and whisked from the room in Verna’s wake.

  The keep was fairly silent, and very dark. Even the boy who tended the fire in the Hall was nodding off at his post. Maris did not have the heart to waken him on such a chill, dark night—although upon her return, she’d have a few words with him.

  “Come, milady,” Verna urged, reaching for her arm to pull her through the hall.

  Maris did not care for the strength of the other woman’s grip—nor her familiarity—and she shook the tight fingers from her wrist. Her servant scarcely noticed, so quickly was she skirting through the Hall, and then out into the bailey.

  At the gates to the portcullis, Maris hailed the guards—who were not, fortunately, following the example of the fire tender—and explained her mission. They waved her on through, misliking her intent to wander through at the darkest part of the night, but following her commands to remain at their post. “You need not rouse a guard for me,” she told them. “I have Verna, and we are going only to Ernest Hillock’s home.”

  Verna, for her part, barely stopped as Maris greeted the guards. “Come, milady,” she urged again. “He is not well.” She led her mistress through the dark streets of the village, through the center square and to the south side.

  “Widow Maggie awaits within,” Verna told her, opening the door to a dark hut and gesturing Maris to go ahead.

  Maris stepped incautiously through the doorway and instantly, two strong hands grabbed her. One covered her mouth tightly, smothering her instinctive scream, and the other banded around her arm as she struggled against a forceful grip that dragged her up against a solid body. The cloak fell from her shoulders, leaving her only clothing the light chemise she’d worn in bed.

  A man grunted as he felt a well placed kick, and he retaliated with a blow to her face that sent her head snapping aside. The pain stunned her for a moment, and the next thing she knew, a thick cloth was shoved into her mouth, gagging her. She tried to bite at the fingers that pressed it in there, and succeeded in tasting dirty flesh. Before she knew what was happening something rammed her knees from behind, sending her buckling to the ground.

  “Take care, ye idiot,” came rough voice. “He wants her alive and well!”

  She gasped in pain and fear, struggling weakly now as her hands were bound behind her back with heavy rope. Lying on a cold dirt floor, she was suddenly overcome by violent shivering and a rising swell of nausea. Her cheek throbbed from where she’d been hit and though she twisted and fought, she was held tightly.

  “Make haste!” someone whispered.

  A heavy cloth was thrown over her head, and she felt herself rolled loosely in the burlap from head to toe.

  “I’ll take the cloak,” came a voice she recognized as Verna’s, and Maris’s struggles began anew at the realization that her own maid had betrayed her.

  “Oh, aye?” sneered a man’s voice.

  Maris, shocked, but still able to hear, focused on the sounds that followed. There was a surprised gasp from her maidservant, then the sounds of slaps against flesh, then thuds and and grunts. Verna gave a stifled shriek, moaning throughout the struggle. There were at least three men, Maris’s fogged mind decided, and through the sounds that ensued, she had an ugly suspicion as to what they were doing to her.

  One of the men groaned loudly, and there was a particularly harsh whimper from the maid.

  Finally, there was silence but for the sounds of harsh breathing. Maris, truly terrified, held her breath, wondering if she was next. Rough hands plucked at the enveloping burlap, and she felt herself being lifted into the air, over someone’s shoulder.

  “Hide her,” said the voice closest to her. “I’ll take this on ahead. Make haste, for the alarm may be sounded at any time.”

  Maris felt herself being carried, and then felt herself flying briefly through the air as she was tossed into some type of platform. She landed heavily, bumping her head and hips against the floor, and then the vehicle began to move thereafter. The cold was beginning to seep through the cloth, and her fingers and toes felt the worst of it. Though the smelly, rough burlap was thick, she had not been rolled too tightly. Although her breathing was labored, she was able to draw it in some air.

  After a time, she either lost consciousness or slept, for it must have been later that she was jostled from the cart. Her head pounded and the side of her face still hurt from where she’d been struck. Still wrapped in the burlap, she shivered as she was placed over what must have been the back of a horse. Something warmer covered her then, and then she felt a rope over her back, securing her to the mount. Fear gripped her again as the horse was urged to a canter and then
a hearty gallop, for she had no way to hold on, and if the rope gave, she would be trampled beneath the horse’s hooves.

  Up until now, her kidnappers had been relatively silent, except for short, terse directions from the one who gave the orders.

  Who could have done this? she asked herself, willing her mind to focus. Earlier, someone had mentioned a “he”, and obviously this “he” didn’t want her to be harmed.

  Her first thought was Victor—but that she dismissed immediately. Why would he abduct her if she was about to be betrothed to him?

  She forced her mind to remain clear and work through the events slowly. Verna was involved—although from the sounds of the struggle that had taken place—it seemed that she was also somewhat expendable, for she’d been left behind. In what condition she’d been left behind, Maris, didn’t know. She shuddered at the thought.

  Whoever it was, then, wanted her alive and for his own purposes. Ransom was a probable cause, or, mayhaps someone wished her powerful father to bend to his will in a political matter. At any rate, Maris tried to put her fears of being harmed to rest: obviously, if it were for a ransom, she would be returned unharmed.

  They traveled for an interminable length of time, it seemed to her. In reality, she had no idea of day or night. Once, she was yanked off the horse and roughly unrolled from her covering then allowed to relieve herself in the nearby brush. Her arms were kept tied and her captor, whom she did not recognize, stood with his back to her. Embarrassed but desperate, Maris tried not to think of his proximity as she crouched in the snow.

  Then she was made to sit near a small fire with the three men, and they fed her a hunk of cheese and a small crust of bread. One of them poured ale into her mouth, heedless of the streams that ran down her chin and throat. At one point, Maris tried to ask them who they were and what their purpose was, but she was silenced by the threat of a gag.

  She was rolled back up into the burlap and loaded on the back of the horse again, and the journey continued.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Dirick sopped up the last of the juices from his bread trencher of bread with a hard crust. The Great Hall of Breakston was as loud and dirty as usual, and the food had not improved in the five days he’d spent there. He’d intended to leave the day before, but after witnessing the scene in which Berkle delivered his bad news to Bon, Dirick changed his mind. He sensed something was afoot, and decided to remain under Bon’s roof for another day or two.

  He’d chosen an unfortunate day to remain at Breakston, however, for ’twas cold and snowing out side of the keep, and there were few amusements other than sitting near the stilted fire, or trading stories with the other men-at-arms. Dirick ached to be outside, exercising his swordplay and perhaps riding Nick, who was as eager as his master to be away from Breakston. As it was, it was barely past midday, and the time stretched before him.

  Shoving away from the crude table, he ambled through the moldering rushes. One of the other mercenary knights who was in Bon’s employ hailed him to a chess table, and Dirick gratefully accepted. They’d just arranged their pieces when a great commotion erupted in the bailey.

  Bon leapt to his feet from the bench on which he’d partaken of the midday meal. Dirick could see the glitter of excitement in his dark eyes, even from the corner where he sat. Excusing himself from the chess game, he stood slowly and unobtrusively made his way to stand near the high table. A group of men led by Berkle burst through the large oaken door carrying what looked like a long, rolled tapestry. As Dirick watched in amazement, a dozen of the men-at-arms gathered around. The serfs hovered in the background, staring with wide eyes.

  With a quick flick of the wrist, Berkle yanked the tapestry roll, dropping it to the floor. It unrolled and a person—a woman—tumbled out, landing in the putrid rushes in a swirl of white gown and long, dark hair. Her hands were tied behind her back and she lay in the midst of her thick hair and the rushes, wincing as one of the dogs loped up to sniff at her. She wore a light chemise that had ruched up past the knees when she landed in her ignominious heap.

  The gathered men reacted loudly with hoots and whistles, but the woman didn’t move. “Silence,” shouted Bon angrily at his men. “You shall show respect to my bride.” The jeers and laughter quieted momentarily.

  Her long hair hid her face, but when Bon leaned forward to brush it back, thus revealing a pert nose and sensual lips, Dirick froze.

  It was Maris of Langumont.

  Stunned, Dirick barely refrained from leaping forward to shield her from the men that gathered around. The moment that he paused, and thus remained anonymous, likely saved his life. There was naught he could do at this moment. ’Twas best to stop, watch, and listen before acting.

  As Dirick struggled to master his horror—while at the same time, praising God that he had decided to stay longer at Breakston—Bon solicitiously helped Maris to her feet and sliced through the rope that bound her wrists.

  “You are well come to my home, my lady,” he made a short bow.

  Maris stood as straight as her stiff, trembling legs would allow. She was frightened and exhausted, her heart thumping so loudly she was sure it echoed throughout the hall. The trembling of her limbs made it nearly impossible to maintain what little composure she could draw to her defense. The chemise she wore was of the lightest linen and did not afford much protection from either cold or prying eyes, so she was thankful for her long hair.

  “Why have you brought me here?” she asked in a hoarse voice. She recognized him immediately from his visit to Langumont.

  As of yet, she had not turned her attention from Bon de Savrille, and had not looked closely at the crowd of gawking men. Instead, though she was overwhelmed by fear, she forced herself to hold the dark gaze of the bearded man standing before her.

  “My lady, I have brought you here to do you the honor of making you mistress of Breakston,” Bon de Savrille told her as he reached for her hand.

  But he froze, pushing back a thick lock of hair to look at what must be a large, purplish bruise on her left cheek.

  He whirled on Berkle, the man who’d been the leader of the group who’d abducted her. “You have allowed my wife to be ill used!” de Savrille screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. “You were not to harm a hair on her head were my very words to you, you low lying, cat sucking whoreson! Throw him in the dungeon,” he screamed at a nearby guard.

  A violently protesting Berkle was dragged from the hall, and immediately after issuing that command, a calmer Lord de Savrille returned his attention to Maris. He made a surprisingly subservient bow. “I pray you will accept my apologies, my lady, for your abuse at the hands of my loyal knights.” He leered at Maris, leaning forward to capture one of her hands in his and raising it to his mouth for a damp kiss.

  Maris had been struggling to focus, to make sense of her predicament at the same time as keeping her composure.

  Just as her thoughts began to separate and to clear, her gaze swept the group of men surrounding her. They rested on a face that was familiar, but out of place…and as the realization that Sir Dirick de Arlande stood in the crowd with her enemy, the world went blank.

  She slid to the floor in the first swoon of her life.

  ~*~

  “My lord!” exclaimed Ernest of the hillock as he was ushered to the dais in the great hall. Merle, along with his guests and wife, was breaking his fast after attending mass that morning.

  “My lord Merle,” began Gustave, who approached with the horrified serf, “Ernest begs an audience.”

  Ernest fairly trod upon the seneschal in his excitement to reach his lord’s table. Executing a brief, but respectful bow, he stammered in his guttural English that he’d found not only the body of Lady Maris’s maidservant, Verna, but also his lady’s brilliant blue cloak crumpled in the snow.

  “What say you?” Merle bellowed, standing in his alarm. His words, too, were in English, and thus the meaning was lost upon the other nobility at the high table.

 
“Aye, my lord, ’twas a fright to me, my lord, whenst I came upon the bloodied, ravaged body of Verna of Langumont. Her’s not breathing or moving and sure as I stand, the wench is dead. And my lady Maris,” his eyes grew round, “’twas nawt sign of her’n but for her cloak, ’round the bend from mine own home.”

  “Gustave, send for the guards of last eve,” Merle roared in French to the hovering seneschal.

  “My lord, what is it?” cried Allegra, standing with a horror-stricken look on her face. Victor and Michael d’Arcy had stopped eating as well.

  “Know you where Maris is this morn?” asked Merle fiercely of his meal companions. “Have ye seen her yet this morrow?”

  They each in turn shook their heads. Allegra’s eyes had grown wide and her face pale as the snow beyond.

  The guards from the watch of the night before rushed into the hall, startled out of their sleep, half dressed and with mussed hair.