“Will Lord Victor press his suit with the king?” Sir Raymond asked, alighting from his steed. He stood close to Maris, protectively, and they stepped away from the other three men.
She drew in a deep breath. “Pray God he does not, else I’d as lief be a traitor or a murderess before I’ll share his bed!”
Raymond dashed a glance about, as if to be aware of unseen ears. “Nay, Lady, ne’er should you compromise yourself thus. ’Tis I who would free you from such an unwelcome match, know you this.” His gaze did not waver. “I should be branded murderer in your stead.”
“Sir Raymond—”
“It was your father’s wish, lady.”
She looked up a him, confused. “What say you, sir? It was my father who arranged for my contract with Victor d’Arcy.”
Raymond shielded his eyes from the sun that glared from behind her. His rugged face settled into serious lines and he drew her further from the rest of her escort. “Lady, your papa saw his error in promising you to Victor and had taken steps to reverse his offer whence we came to free you from Breakston. He sent me with a missive to his majesty on the chance that he’d not live through the battle ahead to retract the betrothal himself.”
“An’ he did not.” Maris’s words were pained. Tears welled in her eyes for the loss of the person she’d loved most in the world.
“Nay, he did not…an’ I am thus torn that I was not there to cover his back in the battle, brief though ’twas, for they opened the gates as soon as the men nocked their bows. But instead of being there, I brought the message to the king. I was your father’s man, and I am now your man for my life.”
She rested a hand on his muscular arm. “Thank you, Raymond, I thank you for your words. I could not bear to think that I would go against my father’s wishes if I were to fight the betrothal contract. Now, at the least, I know that his spirit is with me ere I do.”
He squinted into the lowering sun. “Let us back to the castle, my lady. Eventide draws near.”
She nodded, suddenly elated at the thought of returning to the city. Doubtless, she would share the evening meal with her friends Judith and Madelyne…and, mayhap, chance to speak with Dirick of Derkland.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Sir Dirick, would you not play the lute for us?” Lady Gladys simpered, looking at him over the rim of her goblet. “Her Majesty praises your talent.”
He forced his attention from the entrance to the Great Hall. Why had Maris not come to dinner? “Aye, my lady, how could one not have great talent when faced with such inspiration?” His lips curved into a smile that he did not feel as he pulled a leg from the goose offered by a page. The leg twisted easily from the roasted fowl, juices running down into the trencher he shared with Gladys. “Do you wish some, my lady?” he asked, avoiding a commitment to honor her request.
“Aye, my lord, as you prepare it so prettily.” She gave him a coy glance that failed to stir even the slightest response from him, and tore a small piece of bread from the trencher.
Even as he passed the meat to his dining companion, Dirick’s gaze scanned the room, searching yet again for the absent Maris. He sought, and found, Lord Victor and his father, who sat several tables further from the royal dais than he did. Their presence, at the least, soothed some of his concern as to why she was not at dinner. But, just as he brought his wine to his mouth, he noticed a man seated near the rear of the hall, where naught but the meanest men-at-arms were seated. Dirick froze and returned the goblet to the table, rising to his full height in surprise. Aye, ’twas him. Bon de Savrille.
The bastard should have been disseizened from Breakston after his abduction of Maris, but the king had yet to do so—a fact that annoyed Dirick to no end.
And what in the name of Christ was the man doing here, when he hadn’t been to court for years? Dirick was certain he knew the answer.
“What is it, Sir Dirick?” Gladys asked from next to him.
He barely heard her as he stepped over the trestle bench with the barest glance at her. “Pardon, my ladies,” he muttered to the table at large, pushing hastily around a page holding a pitcher of wine.
Dirick made his way to Bon de Savrille’s side in moments, ignoring the surprised murmurs of the other man’s table companions when he barged along behind them. “What do you here?” he demanded, placing a firm hand on Bon’s soft, broad shoulder
The other man craned his head around, then nearly fell back off the bench in surprise. “You!”
Dirick did not remove his hand. Instead, he slid his grip down to Bon’s upper arm and propelled him away from his dinner seat. “What have you done with her?”
“Take your hands from my person,” growled Bon, making a great show of brushing crumbs of bread from his tunic. When he finished arranging his clothing, he held a dagger in one hand.
Dirick stilled. Blood rushed through his limbs and he became aware that the attention of several men-at-arms from the table was focused upon them. A glint of steel winked in the torchlight, barely flickering as Bon held the blade steadily under his nose. Dirick forced himself to breathe normally, gathering his wits enough to look at the handle of the knife gripped tightly in the hand of the combative man before him.
“What say you sir?” sneered Bon. “You demand answers from me when ’tis you who availed yourself of my hospitality under false pretenses.”
Dirick jerked his gaze to a point behind Bon, reaching to the side as if to catch something. The ruse worked and the other man lost concentration, letting his glance shift away from Dirick for the barest of moments. It was enough to suit Dirick’s purpose as he lifted his knee in a powerful thrust, ramming Bon’s wrist and sending the dagger scuttling to the floor. He stepped closer to him, setting his jaw and muttering between clenched teeth, “What have you done with her?”
Bon grasped the front of Dirick’s tunic and shoved him aside. “Leave me to finish my meal.”
Before Bon could return to his seat, Dirick clamped a hand on his shoulder and yanked him back. “Where is Lady Maris?”
“Step back, cockspittle.” He shook off Dirick’s hand and swung.
Dirick ducked, aware that more attention had turned to them. He grabbed Bon’s tunic and dragged him so that they were chest to chest. Ale from his breath blasted into his face, and Dirick could see a piece of meat stuck between Bon’s two front teeth. “By God’s bones, man, tell me what you’ve done with Lady Maris.”
Bon shoved hard and succeeded in pushing Dirick off-balance. “I’ve naught to say to you, sirrah, that cannot be said with the steel of my knife. An’ I’ll gladly speak to you with that.”
“I vow, if you’ve laid a finger on her person, I’ll carve you into little pieces—”
“’Tis just as well my person is fine and fit,” came a musical voice from behind him, “else His Majesty’s meal would most certainly be ruined by the bloodshed!”
Dirick dropped his hand from Bon and turned to find Maris, flanked by Sir Raymond and another man-at-arms, with an amused, quirked mouth. She was unharmed, he noted immediately, and she was also laughing at him with those beautiful green and gold eyes. Laughing.
An annoyed flush rose to his cheeks and he realized that more spectators had been drawn to the watch the altercation, and that even the attention of the king and queen had come to rest upon them. The hall, usually so loud that the barking of a dog or the dropping of a platter went unnoticed, breathed as close to silence as a crowded chamber could.
“My lady.” He gave a stiff bow and didn’t quite meet Maris’s laughing eyes. “’Tis glad I am that you are unharmed.” He bent to retrieve Bon’s dagger, noting its unexceptional wooden handle, and returned it to the other man. “Unharmed. And she had best remain thus,” he said, his eyes boring into the other man’s dark gaze.
As he spoke those words, the attention of the diners returned to their meals as if the entertainment had never occurred. With one more glance at Maris, who watched him with an unfathomable expression, Dirick turn
ed to make his way back to his place at the front of the hall.
Somehow, amid the din that had started back up to accompany the meal, he heard her gasp. He spun about in time to see Bon’s dagger slashing down upon him. Dirick instinctively raised his arm and the blade, which had been meant for his back, sliced through the woolen tunic, along the back of his shoulder. With a howl of rage, he leaped at Bon, knocking him to the floor.
Kneeling over the stocky man, he pinned one thick arm in the sweet rushes and grappled with the other that held the dagger.
“I did not ever,” he grunted, “have the occasion to repay the hospitality which—” Dirick’s breath was cut off by a knee shoved into his ribs, but that effort cost Bon the battle for the knife. “—The hospitality which you provided to Lady Maris.”
The brief, close struggle ended with the point of the blade very near Bon’s throat, and a crowd of men pressing in upon the scene. Dirick pulled himself to his feet, slightly winded but enlivened from the sudden intensity of the quarrel. “Get you out of my sight, else I will well and truly repay your graciousness to the lady. And know this—you need have no fear of turning your back to me, Bon de Savrille, for when I mean to strike you, there will be no need for stealth.”
His face distorted with rage, Bon pulled himself to his feet and pushed through the cluster of spectators. Again, as the altercation dissipated, so did the viewers, returning to their interrupted meals with the aplomb of long acceptance of such scenes.
“You’ll have a care in the dark hallways, anon,” murmured a voice behind Dirick.
He turned to Maris. Her smirk had been replaced by a frown that creased her forehead. “The man is a buffoon,” he said carelessly. She stood close to him, her long cuff brushing against the hem of his tunic, and he did not move away.
“Ah, buffoon though he is, ’tis he who walked away unscathed and you who have the wound.” Concern lurked under her nonchalance as she rose on her toes to look at his shoulder. Dirick became aware of the spreading dampness of warm blood and a throbbing pain beneath it. “Come, I’ll see to your ill, as you made the fool of yourself on my behalf.”
Her brisk voice dampened any tenderness that may have been in her eyes and Dirick was strangely annoyed. “Nay, lady, I’ll not keep you from your meal.”
Maris tilted an eyebrow, looking up at him. “I have little hunger left, as your talk of bloodshed sapped my desire for food. Come, if I am skilled enough to treat the queen, verily I can do you little harm. And while you stand there and dawdle, your tunic is getting soiled!”
He muttered that she could indeed inflict harm upon him, as he had the memory of an agonizing night on a cold floor to prove it, but in the end, he followed her from the hall. Sir Raymond dogged their footsteps as Maris led the way toward the main hallway to the other side of Westminster.
“I will watch over your mistress, Raymond, you may return to the hall for your meal.” The other man ignored Dirick’s comment while Maris stopped short and turned a cool look on him. “My men take orders from no one but me, Sir Dirick.” Then she turned to Sir Raymond. “Nevertheless, the man is in the right. Raymond, you may return and join the others for dinner. Though he has a wounded shoulder, I vow Dirick will allow no harm to come to me.”
“My lady,” Raymond began hesitantly, then tried again. “But Lady Maris, you cannot take him to your chamber! ’Twould be but more fuel to the fire already started back there!”
Maris shook her head, “Agnes awaits me—we’ll not be alone. I’ll give him a poultice and send him on his way before anyone is the wiser. Now, go you.”
They were silent for the remainder of the long walk to her chamber. When they reached the heavy oaken door, Dirick opened it and preceded her in.
Maris stood in the entrance, watching as he scouted the room with a sharp gaze. His attention went from the smoldering fire to the trunks lined neatly along one short wall, to the narrow bed piled with pillows from her own bedchamber at Langumont.
“Your maidservant is not here.” He’d moved back to the door and stood half in and half out of the room.
“I did not expect her to be,” she said, dismissing the thought with a wave of her hand. “Come within.”
She pushed the door closed, nudging him out of the way, then knelt beside a trunk, untying its leather straps and flinging its lid open. As she rummaged through cloths and small bags, the hem of her veil fell forward and tangled in the contents of the trunk. With a mutter of frustration, she yanked it off, uncovering the four thick braids that were looped up at her crown. Tossing the wimple aside, she delved once more into the depths of the trunk and at last retrieved a small pouch. She set it aside, rummaged further, and withdrew a small square of folded cloth.
When Maris pulled to her feet, she found Dirick poking at the fire, his back to her. The dark red stain on his shoulder had seeped further, but not alarmingly so. She reached to shift the cloth away from the wound, but he moved just as she touched him. “You must remove your tunic and shirt,” she told him.
He hesitated as his gaze rested on her unveiled head, then dropped to her hands holding the leather pouch. “Aye.”
She waited for a moment, but when he did not move, she stepped toward him. “Does it pain you to move? Let me help you.”
“Nay.” He stopped her. “It does not pain me overmuch. Mayhap—” he craned his head at an odd angle, twisting to see the blood stain, “mayhap it has stopped bleeding and I do not need nursing.”
“Dirick, do not be foolish. ’Twas a deep enough cut and I’ve seen many lesser wounds fester. Take off your tunic and I will see to it.” She gestured to a three legged stool in front of the fireplace. “You must sit, as I’ll not be able to see well at your height.”
Maris frowned at him until he acquiesced and began to struggle out of the tunic. As he sat on the stool, clad only in a thin linen shirt and breeches, she turned to find another candle. Lighting the tallow, she placed it on one of the trunks where it would cast a ready light on his shoulder. Then, she added water to a small pot hanging over the fire. At last, she returned her attention to him just as he slowly pulled off the linen shirt.
Her breath slowed, shallowed, and caught when she saw his sleek, muscled back and broad bare shoulders. She must have gasped, for he turned from his contemplation of the fire to look at her with half hooded eyes.
For a moment, she could not speak. The fire played golden and rust shadows over the planes of his arms, caressing the dip in his shoulder and the hollow of his collarbone. It tipped the curling ends of his thick hair with sunlight, smoothing over the jut of angular cheekbones and square chin. Shadows mingled with the thick covering of hair that grew from the widest part of his chest down…down to a place she could not see.…to where heavy, muscled arms rested between his knees.
She had seen many a bare torso in her work as a healer, and also as Lady of Langumont. But she had not expected to find herself so…aware…of this one.
Maris forced herself to recover. “Ah, the stab—’tis worse than I’d thought.” She moved toward him and he turned back to look at the crackling fire. She’d treated countless injuries of this type. The only cause of her sudden nervousness was that they were alone in her chamber. Pushing aside these thoughts, she bent to examine the laceration.
No sooner had she turned her attention to him than she realized this was not the same as any other time. He was not merely a patient to her, a wound to be healed, a bit of skin to be cleansed.
And that thought made her all the more aware of what she was about to do.
His skin was warm and taut, with a few wiry hairs scattered over the curve of his shoulder. There were many, many other scars healed into pale puckers of skin…and some that were purple or red, ugly and jagged. Maris wanted to touch them all, to smooth over the remnants of the dangers he’d faced in the service of the king, to be certain they were as healed as possible.
Her fingers trembled as they brushed over Dirick’s shoulder blade and little bumps
erupted over his skin. One of her braids fell from its mooring and thunked onto his shoulder, and Dirick started so that it slid down his back and rested along his spine.
She felt him draw a breath when she dabbed a damp cloth over the cut, then poked gently at it. It was a clean cut from a very sharp dagger, not deep enough to slice through the tendons, but enough that it would take some time to heal. Some threads from his shirt had caught in the coagulating blood and Maris used a bit of the heating water to wash them free. As she became more engrossed in her work, he seemed to sense it and released a long, slow breath.
When she left his side to prepare the poultice, Dirick shifted on the stool, watching her. Her fingers seemed to have grown twice as long and thrice as fat, as first they dropped the leather pouch, and then could not undo its knot. And finally, when she pulled a handful of dried woad leaves forth, her fingers did not hold them tightly enough and the leaves scattered over the floor and table.
Muttering to herself, Maris stooped to scrape up the dried herb, taking care not to crumble the fragile leaves further. By the time she gathered them into a small wooden bowl, the water on the fire was bubbling and steaming. When she glanced over to check it, Dirick noticed, offering, “I’ll get that for you.”
A Whisper of Rosemary (The Medieval Herb Garden Series) Page 25
