A Whisper of Rosemary (The Medieval Herb Garden Series)

by Colleen Gleason

  “Aye. I have hidden the foodstuffs I purchased in the village with your ring, my lady, and a mount awaits us near the hidden entrance to the keep.”

  Maris turned in surprise, delight spanning her face. “A mount, you say? Agnes, how on earth…?”

  “The stable master bears no love for Lord Bon, my lady, and ’twas no great feat to convince him that I plan to escape with a lover now that my lord has found a bride!”

  “Very well, then. ’Tis nigh time that we should leave.” She scrabbled through a trunk and pulled a large leather pouch from its depths. Inside were two heavy cloaks she’d found in the piles of clothing Bon had made available to her, as well as a dagger she’d sneaked into her sleeve earlier that day.

  As the two women moved toward the heavy door, they heard a loud groan from without. Maris looked at Agnes and carefully opened the door.

  Dirick was doubled up on the floor, his face pasty with pain and glistening with sweat. When he heard the oaken door creak open, he struggled to sit, but the pain that wracked his abdomen had obviously weakened him. There was a pool of vomit nearby, proving that he had not chosen to leave his post when the sickness struck.

  Maris tried to slip past him, but Dirick gathered enough strength to snatch under the hem of her gown and grasp her ankle. “You are not ill!” he grated, comprehension in his face. “By God, woman, you have done this!”

  Agnes hurried past, but Maris, still caught by the ankle and not wishing to make a great disturbance, struggled to free herself. “I had no choice,” she told him, confident that he was too weak to stop them. Indeed, his strong arm trembled with the effort to hold her and she saw a ripple of pain cross his face. “Papa would not be here soon enough.” With her other foot, she kicked at his hand, but his grip did not loosen. “Release me,” she hissed, bending to claw at the arm that held her firm.

  Dirick’s other hand shot up to grab her wrist. “Have you poisoned me, then?” his eyes glittered. “Have you poisoned the whole keep in your haste to escape?” He could barely force the words forth and he yanked her down to her knees next to his prone body.

  Her face was nearly in his, and her long hair caught in the sweat on his cheek. For a moment, a brief instant, regret washed over her that he should be in such pain because of her doing.

  Then sanity reigned, and she pulled with all of her strength. Dirick, weakened beyond measure, could not hold her and she came free, tumbling backward onto the floor. Scrambling to her feet, taking care to pull her skirts out of reach from his fingers, she stared down at him as a spasm shook his body. He groaned aloud, breathing a foul curse as his arms crossed over his belly as if to hold the pain at bay.

  “Witch….” The word was more a breath than a curse.

  Gathering her skirts and the leather pouch, Maris forced herself to turn from the agonized man and hurry to the steps in Agnes’s wake.

  Then she stopped, whirling at the top. “You are not poisoned,” she told him. “I am a healer, do you not forget. All will be well ere the morn. Adieu, Sir Dirick, and mark you well: though I doubt to see your deceitful face again, if I do, I shall see you pay for this treatment of my person!”

  With that, she whirled again and hurried down the narrow stone steps, leaving him in a heap behind her.

  ~*~

  The last thing Dirick remembered before he succumbed to the pain was Maris’s caustic words.

  And that defiant threat was the first thing to come to mind when he regained his faculties many hours later. He knew it was much later because a stream of light came up the stairs, indicating that it was daylight.

  Struggling to his feet with the rough wall as his prop, Dirick tried to swallow to moisten his bone dry throat. He’d lost count of how many times he’d vomited and otherwise expelled the contents of his body through the night. From the stench that greeted him as he made his way to the steps, others afflicted with Maris’s poison had not found their way to a garderobe either.

  Cursing the woman who’d caused this havoc, Dirick carefully picked his way down the stairs, leaning heavily against the wall. If he could sit a horse, he and Nick would be out of this bloody place and on the trail of Maris and her maid as soon as he could walk to the stable.

  In the great hall, prone bodies strewn about bespoke of the effects of whatever Maris had done to the food. Even the dogs were in heaps amongst the men. Dirick tried to swallow again and managed to choke up enough saliva for his throat to convulse. It made a harsh, grating sound.

  Nary a soul stirred as he picked his way toward the outside entrance to the hall, bent on reaching the fresh air. Dirick wondered, fleetingly, if Maris and Agnes had actually made it safely past the guards at the drawbridge…and then he dismissed the question. Of course the woman had succeeded—every man in the place had been incapacitated, thanks to her meddling.

  His empty stomach roiled painfully, and he cursed Maris. Again.

  Out in the crisp, cold air, the fog lifted from his head and he felt stronger. The bailey was relatively quiet—some of the men-at-arms were stirring, groaning and complaining about their sickness of the night before—and even the guards posted at the drawbridge sat slumped against the crenellated walls.

  God’s blood, he thirsted!

  Dirick bent heavily to scoop a mass of clean snow to his mouth. The wet coldness felt like life to his cracked lips and swollen tongue. Another handful followed, and then another, and then he realized that he was hungry.

  Maris had been right. She had said all would be well ere morning. There had been a time, many times, during the night when he’d doubted her words, certain that he’d be standing before God before long.

  His stomach roiled again, this time indicating its emptiness. He turned to make his way back to the hall—’twould be best not to leave with an aching belly, but froze in his tracks at the sound of a bellow from within. Weak though the shout was, Dirick recognized Bon and what must be his fury at the disappearance of his bride.

  Making a swift, prudent decision, he swung back to his path toward the stables, hobbling as quickly as possible to their refuge. Once inside, he wasted no time finding Nick, and, slipping the bit into the destrier’s willing mouth, Dirick vaulted onto his back, sans saddle.

  The shouts from the hall were getting louder, spilling out into the bailey, and he knew he’d be hard pressed to make his escape now. Weakness made his knees tremble and his head light, but he forced himself to keep his mind clear and to find a way to get out of Breakston.

  Nick was eager to go, and Dirick gave him his head once out of the stable. The scene in the bailey was one of chaos: men stumbling to their feet, sluggish and bewildered. Bon stood in the doorway of the hall, screaming orders, even as he leaned heavily against a feeble Edwin.

  As the only man ahorse, Dirick immediately caught Bon’s attention and was the recipient of an enraged bellow. Wheeling Nick, Dirick gathered all of his bravado and urged the stallion to the Lord of Breakston.

  “My lord,” he gasped as if in a hurry, “I caught sight of them over the hill yonder!” He gestured in a northeasterly direction, realizing in the back of his mind that he actually had no idea in which direction they’d gone, and hoping that he wasn’t sending the forces onto their trail. “I’ll catch them! Send after me!”

  Without waiting for an acknowledgement, and praying that Bon would accept his actions and not order arrows to be loosed at his back, Dirick kicked Nick and let him go. Men jumped from their path, rightfully wary of the fierce destrier, who, true to his nature, sensed a battle to come.

  Bon screamed in his wake—what words, Dirick did not care to find out—and some of the men tried to spring their weakened bodies to action. None dared grab at the destrier, however, and man and horse easily plowed through them. The men at the drawbridge were just reaching for the winches to lower the portcullis when Nick and Dirick tore past them, kicking up snow and narrowly missing a clumsy man.

  Dirick bent low over his mount’s neck, urging him on. The hair stood at
his nape as he waited for a shower of arrows to engulf them. The ragged drawbridge began to rise slowly as they thundered across, but Nick, who had not been ill, made a beautiful, flying leap. They soared easily to the ground on the far side of the moat.

  The first arrow landed in the crusty snow not far from them and Dirick cursed. Glancing back, he saw the drawbridge lowering again and was just in time to duck when a cross bolt whizzed past his head. “Aye, Nick, go! Go!”

  The arrows were falling further behind, and the men swarming over the bridge were not moving with enough energy to pose a threat. Dirick saw the haven of the forest ahead and knew he’d succeeded in putting Breakston behind him.

  Now, God willing, he’d have luck and would find Maris and take her to safety.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Merle had been driving his small army of knights at a ferocious pace. Still, it was nearly two days since Maris had been taken before they approached Breakston.

  Though they’d stopped both nights, Merle had slept little. The grinding fear in his middle kept him staring at the stars for the few hours he’d allotted his men for rest. On the second night, when they were within hours of Breakston, a dream had pulled him from the restless sleep that his body finally accepted, and the content of that dream brought him fully awake.

  Terrible foreboding lingered as he struggled to still his pounding heart. He sat upright. The rest of the camp lay still, many of the men snoring, as Merle reached for a leather sack. From the sack’s depths, he pulled parchment, writing utensils and ink, along with his wax and seal.

  The moon was bright, and its reflection on the snow covered hills lent enough light to find what he needed for a letter, but ’twas not enough illumination to see to write. Merle lit a candle, his insides having settled slightly, but the horrible apprehension that had seized him in his dream did not abate.

  He wrote for a long while.

  When he had at last finished the missive, and having no sand to sprinkle on the wet ink, he waved the parchment in the cool air, praying that the words would not run. He hadn’t the time to write another.

  Once satisfied that the words were dry and affixed to the paper, he folded it, sealed it with the seal of Langumont, and crept between the sleeping men until he found the one whom he sought.

  “Raymond, attend me.” Merle pulled firmly at the shoulder of the man.

  With barely a groan, the knight came fully awake, his eyes unglazed though moments earlier he’d been fast asleep. “Aye, my lord!” he nearly leapt to his feet, hand reaching for his sword.

  Merle drew Raymond of Vermille away from the watchmen clustered about the fires to give him terse instructions about the delivery of the missive. “Well I know that you are the greatest asset I may have should we be forced to battle at Breakston,” he concluded, “yet ’tis this which I place the greatest import upon. Ride fast and hard and place this in my liege’s hands if you do no other task for me on this earth.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Raymond nodded solemnly at the trust that was being placed upon him.

  “Godspeed to you.” Merle placed a heavy hand on his man’s shoulder, then watched in satisfaction as he mounted a powerful destrier and charged through the crisp snow.

  It was dawning, then, and once Raymond of Vermille had disappeared into the distance, Merle returned his attention to the sleeping army. “À moi!” he shouted, “To me, to Langumont!”

  The well trained knights sprang to their feet, instantly awake and wary. Lord Michael and Sir Victor were among the first to mount their horses, and all drew near Merle as he barked out orders.

  “On to Breakston!” he announced after splitting the group into two smaller parties, placing Michael as leader to one and pulling Maris’s betrothed to follow in his steps. “God willing, we’ll have my daughter in our hands by noon tide!”

  ~*~

  ’Twas good fortune, Dirick thought hazily, that Nick had been well sated with food and had rested comfortably ere they began their journey, else he may have found himself in more dire straits than he did now.

  True, he and his mount had been following what appeared to be the trail of Maris and her companion Agnes for much of the day, but they’d not yet come upon the two women, and the sun was beginning to sink into the far trees.

  Upon leaving Breakston with such haste, Dirick had presumed to catch up with them by mid morn. But he’d not anticipated that they’d be ahorse. Ahorse. Even his befuddled mind grasped the incredulity of that fact. How, on God’s earth, had they managed to sneak a mount from the keep?

  There was no doubt that the trail he was following was that of Maris and Agnes: his mind had been functioning well enough at the start to recognize the unmistakable sweep of two skirts in the snow before the women had mounted the horse.

  His abused stomach tightened painfully and a flash of lightness made the earth tilt. Dirick’s only sustenance had been handfuls of snow when he’d cared to stop, and, once, a few red berries he’d spied in the crusty white. Fervently praying that they were not poisonous, Dirick had munched on what he could find. They tasted minty and did little to fill his stomach, but were enough to take the staleness from his mouth.

  Thus, he thought he was hallucinating when he saw smoke curling through the trees. Urging Nick closer, Dirick caught sight of some type of structure. It was a small building with a neatly thatched roof and well fitting door. Ignoring the fact that the trail he was following veered well away from the building, Dirick coaxed Nick toward the hut, hoping at the least for a bit to eat.

  He stumbled to the door, taken by surprise at the violence of his weakness. His vision seemed to spin in slow circles as he banged a fist upon the sturdy oak.

  It wasn’t until that door opened, and the elderly woman’s presence registered in his mind, that Dirick allowed his ravaged body to succumb to its infirmity and he sank to the ground.

  ~*~

  Maris drank deeply of the rich venison broth set before her. Its warmth flowed through her body and she sighed with a smile. “’Tis wondrous, Mother Abbess,” she told the bewimpled nun.

  “An’ you have your fill,” the woman with the stern, wrinkled face told her. “‘Tis glad I am that the Lord saw fit to lead you here, my lady. We’ve enough passersby that certainly some will come to lead you back to Langumont in safety.” The face wrinkled more to express a smile. “I’ve heard of Langumont, my lady, and of the beauty of the ocean that can be seen from its highest towers. And of its richness, and the skill of its tradesmen.”

  Maris stifled a smile. Her welcome had been warm, of course, but the intensity of the abbess’s friendliness, and her personal attention, indicated her hopes for a generous donation to the sisters and their work. The older woman was as shrewd as Lord Merle when it came to bettering her estate and caring for her charges.

  “Tis certain my papa will express his gratitude for your hospitality on my return to Langumont,” Maris told her. Then she turned her attention to more pressing matters. “My maid, Agnes—where have you settled her for the night?” Of the two of them, it had been Agnes who’d succumbed more readily to the elements, and she’d been nearly frozen when they were lucky enough to come upon the abbey just before sunset.

  “Sister Gracia made a pallet for your woman in the infirmary. She’ll be cared for there until we are certain the dangers of frostbite are nil. I’ve had a chamber prepared for you, my lady, and you may bathe before retiring. You may wish to join us in the chapel for the evening vigil. ’Tis announced by the tolling of the bells.”

  “Many thanks, Mother, yet I’d prefer to say my confession in my chamber and bathe before I sleep. I fear I’m more exhausted than I realized!”

  “Of course, my dear,” the abbess patted her hand. “I’ll call for Father Alphonse to see to your confession now, if you’ve eaten enough, while your bath is prepared.”

  Maris rose and followed the black gowned woman as she wound her way through the corridors of the abbey. Though not much lighter than the keep at Break
ston, the building was warmer and more inviting than that dreary place.

  And, indeed, Maris’s chamber, though not richly furnished, held more welcome than hers at Bon de Savrille’s home—mainly because no guard was stationed outside of the door. The bed was smaller, and not as plush, but the bedding was clean and thick and promised heavenly warmth after a long, frigid day of wandering through the countryside. A fire nearly burst through the grated fireplace, easily heating the room, and Maris sighed as she sank onto a stool nearby.

  Father Alphonse, summoned by the abbess’s servant, arrived to hear her confession. When that was done, and her penance given (Maris did not blink at the large number of paternosters that was her penance. In light of the many lies to Lord Bon and the pain she’d inflicted upon the folk of Breakston ’twas a small enough penalty) a tub and buckets of steaming water paraded into the room, carried by quiet and efficient servants.

  When the priest had left and one of the servants had assisted Maris with disrobing, she sank gratefully into the generous wooden tub. One of the women sprinkled chamomile flowers over the warm water and Maris inhaled the sweet, calming scent as they steeped in her bath.