A Whisper of Rosemary (The Medieval Herb Garden Series)

by Colleen Gleason

  She nodded and returned to her work. The dried woad, at one time a pretty blue green color, but now dried into a dull black, crumbled in the bowl. She took a handful of dried chamomile flowers from a different leather pouch and added them to the woad. Dirick stood at her side, holding the hot water, and she gestured for him to add some to the herbs. He poured gently, taking care not to splash it, and when the water embraced the flowers and leaves, a pungent but pleasing scent filled the air.

  Maris brushed past him, lightly touching his bare arm as she reached for the square of cloth. He stiffened, stepping out of her way, and returned to his seat on the stool. She stirred the contents of the bowl, unfolded the cloth into a long strip, then turned back to her patient. The bleeding had slowed to a mere ooze, and she washed the cut once more.

  Then, using a flat wooden utensil, she scooped up the mass of herbs and water and murmured, “It will be warm.” Dirick did indeed start when she smoothed the poultice onto his injury, but she felt him relax as the treatment began to work to soothe the pain and cleanse the cut. Maris placed the cloth over his shoulder, lifting his heavy, muscular arm to wrap the bandage.

  Once it was in place, she patted the poultice gently, checked that none of the herbs were leaking from beneath, and tied the cloth into place.

  Then, her hands did not want to leave him: they brushed his thick hair from the nape of his neck, pulled a few strands from under the bandage, and smoothed over his uninjured shoulder. Dirick’s chest rose as he drew in a single, ragged breath, and then he stilled.

  “You have many hurts,” Maris said, tracing a finger over one scar, and then another, and another…. His skin was warm and smooth, the little bumps erupting wherever she touched him.

  “And none tended as carefully as this one.” His voice was rough. Reaching over his good shoulder, he captured her hand and pulled it forward, turning his head to place a kiss on her knuckle, and pressing her palm to the center of his chest..

  The front of him was hot from the proximity of the fire. She smoothed her hand through wiry hair over the hard swell of muscle, brushing a flat nipple and tracing the ridge of bone down his center. The tingling that began in her fingers flushed through her body, culminating in a pool in her middle that warmed and stirred her entire being. Her chest rose, breasts pushing against his back, and her breathing became shallow and labored.

  She wanted more. She wanted all of him.

  Maris gasped at the thought, pulling her hand away, and stepped back. Before she could speak, to explain, Dirick whirled off the stool, turning onto her with dark, glittering eyes and a taut mouth.

  “Jesù, Maris,” he breathed, reaching for her. He was beautiful, dark, masculine: all muscle and thick, wild hair, haloed by the dancing fire, towering over her.

  She did not resist when he pulled her flush to the long, hard length of his body. Sinking against him, fingers closing over his shoulders, she tilted her head back to receive his kiss. His mouth covered hers, desperate and hungry, and Maris felt herself swept into a maelstrom of heat and energy, kissing him back, forgetting where she was, that she had to breathe….

  The warmth of his bare chest, the texture of wiry hair and heated skin, the sleek bulge of muscle…all of him pressed against her, burning through the thin cloth of her gown. Her breasts felt tight, straining against him, her core tight and swelling and damp. When she eased a hand up into his thick hair, and the other back down over his chest, he pulled away enough to look down at her.

  The intensity in his eyes, the deep need there, caused a great tightening in her middle. She met his gaze, reaching up to touch his parted lips with trembling fingers. “’Tis not right,” Maris whispered in a shaken voice.

  He wrapped his fingers around her hand, pressing his lips to its sensitive wrist. His mouth closed over the thick pad of her palm, biting gently, sliding full lips over the inside of her hand. His tongue slipped out to thrust slick and wet between two fingers, and Maris closed her eyes, sagging against him as the sharp stab of pleasure arrowed into the pit of her belly and lower.

  His fingers closed over her shoulders. “I want you,” his words were forced, harsh, as if wrung from his very depths. “I have no claim to you, but God above, I want you.”

  She shook her head, forcing herself to ease away despite the need trammeling through her body. “Nay. I cannot give what belongs to the king.”

  His eyes darkened to black and his face settled, livid with shock. “Henry?”

  Maris realized his mistake. “Nay, Dirick, you mistook my meaning,” she pulled firmly from him, aware that her breathing was too rapid, too shallow, and that her entire being suddenly felt bereft and empty. “I am the king’s ward, to do with what he will. And I must pledge all to him on the morrow.”

  The fury drained from his face. “Aye.” His eyes still glittered with desire as his gaze swept over her. “Maris,” he said, low and deep.

  She had to turn away, else she would drag him to the pillow-strewn bed. “’Tis my fate to be used as a pawn, dangled as a prize, no doubt, for some well landed baron close to the king,” she said bitterly. “And of all men in this kingdom, it could not be you, as you’ve naught to bring to the great lands of Langumont.”

  Dirick stepped back as if slapped. “Aye, ’tis true, I’ve naught to bring to your great lands,” he said caustically. “And I doubt you’d lower your great self to be given to one as mean as I, even if you did not answer to the king.”

  He stalked to the door, pausing to give a mocking bow before he opened it. “Good night, my Lady Maris. And thank you for your services.” With a sharp gesture to his bandage, he turned and walked through the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Maris knelt in front of King Henry, holding an old, dried bit of bone that the bishop claimed to be a finger of Saint Peter. The king closed his hands over hers, drawing them under his mantle, as he looked down at her with steely blue eyes.

  “I become thy woman of such tenement to be holden of thee.” Maris spoke clearly so as to be heard above all the rustling of the crowded abbey. “To bear thee and thine heirs faith of life, and member, and earthly worship against all men who can live and die on this earth, in the name of God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” She bent her head to kiss his hands.

  “We renew upon thee thy vassalage to the lands of Langumont, Cleonis, Firmain, and all such properties encompassed by the baronage of Langumont.” Henry pulled her to her feet, pressing a dry kiss to her cheek.

  Maris gave a short curtsey, then moved aside and off the dais, turning to watch as the Lord of Southampton took her place opposite the king. The bishop took Saint Peter’s finger bone from her with reverence, and she shifted so that she could see the crowd filling the abbey.

  Her gaze wandered the many faces, looking for whom or what she did not know, and rested at last upon two silver beaconed heads near the front of the chamber. The Lords Victor and Michael d’Arcy looked back at her with twin pairs of shimmering eyes, purposeful and glinting with anger.

  Suppressing a shudder, she turned her attention away. Clenching her fingers so hard that her ragged nails bit into her palms, Maris closed her eyes for a moment. She feared those two men as she’d never feared before…but she could not understand why they should strike such loathing in her heart. Lord Victor was her intended betrothed, but surely he was not an evil man.

  Then the memory of his brutal lips and grasping hands returned, and she felt nauseated. If he wasn’t truly evil, at the least he was greatly reprehensible. She renewed her private vow that if she were unfortunate enough to be bound to him, if he raised a hand to her or otherwise used force, he’d not live past their first moon of wedded bliss.

  When she opened her eyes, Maris’s gaze fell upon a tall, dark haired man no more than a few rows from the dais. Dirick’s handsome, unshaven face as appeared to be carved of stone, and his stare was trained upon her. Abruptly, he turned away, bowing his head slightly.

  A tremor of heat rushed up her s
pine even as her lips pursed in anger. Aye, the man could melt her with his kisses and the strength of his large, powerful hands—

  “Maris of Langumont.”

  The sound of her name ringing out jerked Maris’s attention back to the altar, where the king stood, looking expectantly at her. The bishop gave her a none too gentle push and she caught her balance before she stumbled onto the dais.

  What was this? She had already pledged her fealty. What was happening now? Gathering up her skirts, she took two steps onto the altar.

  “Monique of Trysdon.” The king’s secretary solemnly intoned another name. “Bertilde of Hyannes.”

  Bewildered, but taking great care to keep her face devoid of emotion, Maris stood near the king, joined by Lady Monique and Lady Bertilde. She clasped her hands over her abdomen, tangling her fingers in the heavy silver and gold girdle that wrapped about her waist.

  There was silence after the three women were assembled, and then the king spoke. “It pleases us to decree the betrothals of three of our wards on this day, to such lords of the realm who have since pledged their loyalty—and who have maintained it in instances of great adversity.”

  Maris’s heart plunged to her stomach and she felt light headed. Betrothal! She’d not expected this, had had no time to prepare herself for this eventuality. She’d been certain that the king would simply collect the tithes from her lands as his ward for many years before giving her to one of his barons. Unless…her heart tripped and she flashed a glance at Michael and Victor. Had they pressed their suit to the king and did he now intend to honor the betrothal her father had made?

  She dared not look at Dirick, dared not let him see what was surely in her eyes. He must not know how she felt. Instead, she returned her attention to the king, who’d just announced the name of Lady Bertilde’s betrothed—one of the powerful barons whose holdings fell upon the Welsh border.

  “Lady Monique of Trysdon.”

  The lady in question stepped forward, and Maris saw her gaze flicker to Dirick. Her stomach plummeted and she tightened her fists, digging her nails into the palms of her hands.

  Nay, not to him. Her silent plea to God was instinctive, if not selfish, and Maris took a small step backward in her confusion, jostling the priest.

  “Lady Monique of Trysdon is hereby promised to Lord Bartholemew d’Ausignan.”

  A wave of relief swept over Maris, but was instantly usurped by a light headed faintness when her name was called. She steeled her features to show no emotion as she stepped toward the king, her gaze brushing over Queen Eleanor, who sat with a satisfied smile behind him. Maris gave a little curtsey, then straightened, swallowing the lump in her throat as she awaited her fate.

  “Lady Maris of Langumont is hereby promised to the Baron of Ludingdon and Fairhold.”

  There was a pause as the audience digested the announcement, and then, as exclamations of confusion and surprise erupted, a loud voice shouted, “The lady is already promised!”

  Voices quieted as Michael d’Arcy pushed his way through the crowd, followed closely by his son. “The lady is promised!” his voice rang loudly into the sudden stillness.

  Maris’s heart thudded in her chest and her limbs prickled with tension. Though she had no knowledge of the Baron of Ludingdon, verily he was a more desirable groom than the one who now stood at the base of the dais in his father’s shadow. She prayed that was so.

  Henry looked down at the d’Arcys, raising his brows. “What say you, man? The lady is promised?”

  “Your majesty, the lady’s father, Merle of Langumont, entered into a betrothal contract between his daughter and my son, Lord Victor d’Arcy.”

  The king stroked his beard. “And can you produce the contracts to verify your claim?”

  From his place in the crowd, Dirick could see a glitter of humor in the king’s grey eyes. Through his numbness, he wondered what game Henry played, even as he was desperate to learn who this Baron of Ludingdon was.

  Who was to have Maris?

  Who was the man?

  Michael d’Arcy was speaking. “The contracts were drawn up but the lady was spirited away before they could be finalized. Lord Merle was slain during her rescue. But there are many witnesses to the lord’s intent, for ‘twas announced to the people of Langumont.”

  “And ’tis your claim that the contract should be honored though it was not signed?” Henry glared down at the man before him.

  Maris had been still throughout the exchange, and now Dirick saw her move as if to speak. Henry must have sensed the same, and he turned to her. “Lady Maris, what have you to say of this? Do you wish to pursue his claim of betrothal?”

  “Your grace, I did not see the betrothal contracts of which Lord d’Arcy speaks,” her voice was steady, “but ’tis true that my father announced such an intention.” A grin of satisfaction creased Michael’s face, broadening with her next words. “But, my lord, ’tis my intent to abide by my father’s last wishes before his untimely demise.”

  Coldness swept over Dirick. She’d honor the betrothal! The bitter tang of disappointment touched his tongue, and he swallowed back a retort of frustration. He almost missed the small smile touching her lips as she bent her head demurely. What game was she playing now?

  The king shot Maris a glance, giving a slight nod and a matching smile. Sensing some undercurrent between the two, Dirick renewed his attention as Henry spoke. “Ah, aye, my lady. We, too, intend to honor the final wishes of our faithful vassal.”

  Michael started to speak, confident that he’d won the battle. The king cut him off, producing a curling parchment sheet. “We have a missive writ in the hand of Lord Merle of Langumont, to ourselves, on the thirteenth day of this January. This letter, scribed as he prepared to besiege the castle where Lady Maris was held, repudiates the intended betrothal contract between his daughter, Maris, and Lord Victor d’Arcy.”

  “Nay!” shrieked Michael d’Arcy in surprise, echoing his son’s shocked exclamation.

  Henry looked down his nose at the furious man. “We assure you, ’tis true,” he said regally. “The contracts were not signed, and the lord recants his decision to betrothe Lady Maris to Lord Victor.”

  The bishop nodded in agreement and Michael and Victor had no choice but to retreat.

  Henry raised his gaze from the angry men, casting it about the chamber. The rising noise subsided when he lifted his hand. “Lady Maris of Langumont is hereby promised to the Baron of Ludingdon and Fairhold,” he repeated his earlier decree. “That is a title has been undesignated since the baron’s death without issue for some moons. This day, Dirick of Derkland shall swear fealty to us in that name of Baron of Ludingdon and Fairhold.”

  Dirick felt a rush of blood to his face as shock numbed his body. His head snapped up to meet the king’s gaze and the twinkle of mischief in those pale blue eyes, and, dazed with his sudden good fortune, Dirick moved toward the dais. A barony! He’d been awarded a barony!

  And Maris.

  Stepping eagerly onto the altar, he could not keep back a grin. “Your majesty, you honor me beyond my belief! ’Tis my greatest pleasure to pledge my loyalty to you and your heirs.” Though intent upon the king’s presence, Dirick could not keep from flashing a glance at Maris. His look at her was brief, but her pale, wide eyed face, stony with shock, impaled its impression on his mind. She looked as though her death knell had been rung.

  He could attend to that anon, but for now, he returned his attention to Henry. Kneeling on one knee before his sovereign, Dirick took the bone of St. Peter into his hands and swore his vassalage to the king with strong, steady words.

  When he rose from his knees, Dirick found himself facing Maris. Her gaze was so cold and blank that he nearly shivered. Of necessity, he kept his face devoid of emotion as the bishop stepped between them to administer the betrothal vows.

  Maris’s small, cold, scratched hand was placed in Dirick’s larger one, her skin pale next to the brown roughness of his fingers. He repeated the v
ows with a clear, strong voice as he studied her inclined head. As he spoke, a rush of energy shot through him. She was to be his.

  “And to thee I plight my troth,” Maris’s voice uttering the words that would make her his brought his attention back to the present. She withdrew her fingers from him as soon as she finished reciting her promise.

  They stood side-by-side, arms brushing sleeve to sleeve, as the other couples cited their betrothal vows. Dirick felt Maris’s unyielding stiffness next to him and he was overwhelmed with the sudden yearning to gather her into his arms and kiss her into a malleable handful of woman. He’d coax away any reservations she might have.

  Henry announced that the wedding ceremonies would take place on Sunday next—four days hence—and that the betrothal contracts would be prepared within two days. With that, he dismissed the crowd.