A Whisper of Rosemary (The Medieval Herb Garden Series)

by Colleen Gleason

  “Felicitations, Lord Dirick,” purred a voice behind him.

  He turned to find the queen with a complacent smile on her face. “Your majesty,” he kissed her hand, suddenly realizing his debt to her.

  “Look you here,” she spoke, resting a possessive hand on his forearm, “in the space of one morn, you are entitled, enfeofed, and engaged to be married to a well landed heiress!” Her eyes danced with pleasure and mischief.

  “My lady, I have never met a more fortunate man—with the great exception of your husband,” he said with all sincerity.

  The teasing left her eyes to be replaced by earnestness. “As you have served us well, ’tis well deserved. I wish happiness for you and your lady.”

  “I thank you with all of my heart.” He kissed her hand again, and turned to confront Maris. She was gone. He whirled back to an amused Eleanor.

  “Have you lost your wife so soon?” the queen teased, tucking her hand into the crook of her husband’s elbow. “She’ll be quite the challenge for you, Lord Dirick, I trow.”

  Henry chuckled in his booming way. “Aye, my love, I should say Dirick may have to raise his hand to her rump more than once in their life anon.”

  “Your majesties,” Dirick bowed, his mouth tightening. “I beg excuse to leave.”

  “Aye, Dirick, go you in search of her. I wish you the best of luck in taming that lady!”

  ~*~

  Maris had made her escape from the abbey as soon as Dirick turned to greet the queen. Raymond of Vermille met her as she slipped from the crowded chamber, dogging her footsteps as she hurried down a narrow hall back to the castle.

  Betrothed! Betrothed to Dirick, Lord of Ludingdon!

  Her heart had been choking her since the announcement.

  How had he done it? How had he convinced the king to award him not only a title, but her hand as well? Her mind spun with the incredulity of it, with excitement and titillation. She’d been unable, unwilling to react during the announcement for fear she’d misunderstood. Or that it was all a jest.

  How had he done it? Only last evening had he been so below her reach.

  Suddenly she became aware that Raymond had followed her from the chamber, and she slowed her frenzied pace. They paused, ducking into an alcove not far from her chamber in the keep.

  “My lady,” said her faithful knight with a question in his voice.

  “Raymond,” she said, leaning back against the stone wall. The hall was lit by the sun, which shone brightly through the arrow slits above her. She sighed wearily, passing a hand over her face. “I am to be married in four days!”

  “Aye, lady, and not to Victor d’Arcy. Praise God!”

  “Aye.” She breathed more calmly now. “There is that.”

  He waited silently, as if knowing she must gather her thoughts.

  “Dear God, Raymond, what am I to do?” Her voice sounded piteous even to her own ears. How could she face Dirick now? The man who was to be her husband?

  Raymond rested a light hand on her arm. “Lady, lady…I’ll not let any harm come to you!” He hesitated, and his voice dropped as he edged closer. “Do you wish that I rid you of your betrothed as I promised once before?”

  “What? Do you plot against me already?”

  Maris jerked her attention to the spot behind Raymond where Dirick had appeared. Though his words were light and filled with humor, darkness flashed in his eyes and she knew to beware of his anger. Raymond’s face paled and he stepped in front of Maris as if to protect her, hand dropping to the dagger that rode at his waist.

  “Do not be a fool, man,” Dirick said when he saw Raymond’s stance. “I am in the right, and I intend no harm to the lady anyway.” He looked at Maris as if to quell any argument on her part, then ordered the other man, “Leave us.”

  Before Raymond could speak, she nodded, knowing that Dirick would have his way. “You may go,” she agreed. With a quick look to assure her that he would be nearby if she was in need of him, Raymond left their presence.

  “Come,” Dirick took her hand, placing it firmly on his arm. She let it rest there, resisting the urge to close her fingers over the pronounced muscles and feel his warm strength.

  They proceeded down the hallway and directly to an opening that led to a courtyard. He did not speak, but walked her out into the spring sunshine, leading her to a single bench at one end. Proffering her a seat, Dirick waited until she sank down before sitting next to her.

  Maris busied herself by arranging her gown, grateful for an excuse to remove her hand from his arm. He’d sat upon the edge of her skirt, and when she looked up at him to ask him to move, she froze at the cold anger in his eyes. Suddenly, she knew why he’d brought her outside: so that they would be alone and no one could overhear.

  “No sooner is our betrothal announced than you are plotting to rid yourself of me.” He leaned close to her face, close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek. Dirick tipped up her chin, forcing her to look at him. “You’ll not be rid of me that easily. You haven’t a chance in the world, Maris.”

  She pulled back, disturbed by the fluttering in her stomach. “Dirick—”

  But he cut her off. “I’ve just been given everything I want in this world.”

  “Nay,” she whispered, wondering, hoping, that perhaps she had been part of what he wanted in the world…she, not her lands. But the hope was futile, as his next words proved.

  “I’ve been given a title, and my own lands—and Langumont will bring even more leverage to the Barony of Ludingdon. ’Tis more than I’d ever thought possible.” If Maris hadn’t been so hurt by his words—for there was no mention of her, only her lands—she would have been warmed by the pride and happiness that lit his silvery-blue eyes. “If you are so repulsed by the notion of wedding with me, so be it—but do you not squander my own life for your whim.” The warmth in his eyes evaporated, replaced by the flashing anger that had been there before.

  She rose, looking down at him. “It was only the concern of my loyal man that you heard, as I’d made it clear to him in the past that I’d not suffer Victor d’Arcy in my bed. He merely wished to assure me of his protection regardless.”

  Dirick’s face took on a serious cast. “Aye, lady, ’tis certain d’Arcy is miffed by the dissolution of your betrothal to him. Have a care to yourself.”

  Mayhap he did care for her. Nay, ’twas more likely he feared aught would happen to her before their wedding gained him her lands. Maris’s lips tightened. “Victor would gain naught by harming me—’tis you who should watch your back.” A cool smile flitted across her mouth. “In less than the space of one day, you’ve made two enemies on my behalf.”

  He pulled to his feet, tall and powerful in his great height. “My dearest Maris, I have many, many enemies, and two more, especially for your sake, mean naught to me.” His gaze caught hers, holding it steadily, then falling downcast as he took one of her hands. He raised it to his mouth, brushing full, warm lips over the sensitive skin of the back of her hand. She shivered and tried to pull it free, but he held her firmly, turning it palm side up and pressing a gentle kiss to the cup of her hand. Little prickles of awareness shivered up her arm.

  “Dirick,” she breathed through a heavy, tight chest.

  “I require a kiss to seal our betrothal,” he told her, gathering her to his chest. “It is my right.” He was warm and solid, his arms a strong band holding her to him. Dirick looked down at her, not to seek her acquiescence, but for her to see the determination in his gaze before his mouth descended.

  When their lips met, it was with a clash of heat and tenderness, a rush of pleasure. A new strength, a possessiveness, colored his kiss as bold confidence exuded from his person…and yet there was an easiness about it all. As if he had every bit of time he needed to explore, to taste, to coax and tease—as if he would do it so thoroughly that she would be left fully plundered.

  And Maris, for her part, could hardly recall that she must breathe at some point. Th
e world fell away and there was only Dirick, only his strength about her, only his clean, sharp scent the heat of his body burning into hers.

  His hands slipped from her back down over her rump, pulling her up against the ridge of his arousal. He sighed, dipped his head to gently bite her neck, and released her. They looked at each other for a moment, assessing the other, gathering their wits, realizing that in four days they would be wed.

  “I shall tell you this only once, my lady,” he said at last in a voice rough with desire. “Though you may find marriage to me repulsive, you will suffer me in your bed…at the least until you have presented me with an heir.”

  He stepped away, his chest still moving with quickened breaths. “Call upon your faithful knight to see you to your chamber. But I shall escort you to dinner this eve.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  The next morning, Maris broke her fast alone in her chamber. She had no desire to rest her attention upon her betrothed husband any sooner than her wedding day demanded. She’d been so stunned by his kisses, and then broad sided by his steely command that she bear him an heir, that she’d been able to do naught but gape after him as he left her standing in the courtyard.

  Dirick had not escorted her to dinner as he’d promised, for the king had called his council of barons together to discuss the problems with his brother in Anjou. As a newly confirmed lord who also had the ear of the king, Dirick was expected to participate in this activity, and, Maris thought, ’twas no hardship to her. Verily, she hoped he’d spend the rest of his time in the company of his liege lord.

  He’d left her confused, uncertain, and trembling with something that she didn’t understand. And until she could determine how she must act around him—cool and remote, giddy and complimentary, or some other way—she was happy not to be in his presence.

  According to Dirick’s pronouncement that she would join him in his bed, there would be time enough for that anon.

  Agnes assisted her to dress in a traveling gown for a trip into London Town. Despite her annoyance with Dirick for his blunt, offensive orders to her the day before, Maris knew that she would be wed three days hence, and the womanly part of her desired to dress the part. And she must find a wedding gift for her husband.

  Raymond and five other men-at-arms waited without her chamber, following as she and Agnes started down the hall.

  Their horses were ready for them at the great royal stables. Maris offered Hickory a scrubbed carrot in apology for not visiting the day before, then, using a tree stump reserved for that purpose, hoisted herself lightly into the saddle.

  As they approached the market area of London Town, the six men-at-arms stayed close around the two women. Once they reached the stalls where the cloth makers were, Maris and Agnes dismounted from their horses and, leaving their mounts with two of their burly guardians, began to weave their way through the crowds of people.

  Raymond and the rest of the men cleared a path for the women, stepping out of the way when they reached a vendor that interested Maris.

  She spent a better part of the morning searching for cloth to make her wedding gown, fingering silks and wools and linens from France, Italy, even the Holy Lands. At last, she discovered a merchant with brilliantly colored, tightly woven fabrics of such quality that she’d not seen. Each bolt cost more than one peasant family subsisted upon in one year at Langumont, and Maris nearly went on to a different stall.

  But the merchant knew his trade, and when he saw the interest in her eyes and noticed the fineness of her clothing, he pulled a special cloth from the bottom of a trunk. Maris’s eyes widened when she saw it, and her mouth opened in a soft gasp. She’d never seen anything as beautiful as the shimmering pale gold cloth. Nearly sheer, and shot through with shiny gold threads in a spider web pattern, the fabric slithered over her fingers like a mere whisper. It would make a stunning under gown. Maris fingered it thoughtfully for a moment, then acquiesced to its beauty and commenced with haggling over the cost of the bolt.

  Her undisguised interest was her undoing, and, though she was normally skilled in the technique of bargaining, the merchant was able to wring rather more gold from her than she should have paid. Maris purchased a second bolt of darker gold silk for her overgown at a much lesser cost, and a light, cinnamon colored wool for a cloak from the same merchant.

  The party moved along from the cloth vendors, pausing to buy meat pies and cheese for a mid day meal. The libation offered by a local alewife was strong and pleasingly bitter, sending a tingle of happiness into Maris’s belly. They found sweet pastries at yet another stall and stood enjoying them at the side of the busy street.

  Now came the difficult part: a wedding gift for her betrothed.

  The men-at-arms wandered along the streets in Maris’s wake as she perused stall after stall, vendor after vendor, and was able to find nothing she deemed suitable for Dirick.

  At last they came to the market section that housed the jewelers and the goldsmiths. Wandering up and down the narrow aisles between stalls, Maris felt a growing sense of frustration as nothing seemed appropriate for her soon-to-be husband. And why this task of finding a gift should plague her, she didn’t know…but it did.

  Finally, she paused at a goldsmith that specialized in fashioning brooches and pins for the cloaks and mantles worn by men and women alike. The thought came to her of a sudden.

  “How quickly could you create a pin with my lord’s standard upon it?” she asked the smith.

  The man frowned and ventured, “In six days, mayhap, my lady.”

  She shook her head. “Half again as much if you can deliver it to me by Sunday morn.”

  Obviously unwilling to the let opportunity pass him by, the smith considered briefly, then agreed. Maris dug out her leather pouch to give him an initial payment. When she pulled two silver coins from its depths, her dagger tumbled out onto the ground.

  The smith stooped to retrieve it for her and made a little sound of delight. “Ah! Such a lovely piece. I’ve not seen this work for many a year, my lady!”

  Instantly, her attention left the coins and focused on him. “You know of this work?”

  “Aye. ’Tis the skill of Frederick of Gladwythe.”

  “Where might one find this Frederick?” she asked, knowing that Dirick would demand the same information if he were present.

  The smith shrugged. “My lady, I’ve not seen the man for five or six summers. He may be dead for all I know, as I’ve not seen any of his work for that long. He was not a young man.”

  Maris dug an extra coin from her purse. “If you recall anything more about him, or where he might be found, do you send word to me, Maris of Langumont, or my betrothed husband, Dirick of Ludingdon. ’Tis a matter of life and death.”

  He accepted the third coin with alacrity. “Aye, my lady. That I will do. And I will see that your husband’s pin is delivered to you by Sunday matins.”

  “I thank you, good sir.” She bid him a good day and returned to Raymond and her other companions with a new bounce in her step. On their wedding day, she would have two presents for her husband.

  Because the streets were so crowded, the party did not mount their horses. They were ambling along, the urgency of the trip now gone, when a loud noise behind them drew their attention.

  A heavy cart was speeding down the narrow street in their direction, bouncing pell mell behind two heavy horses. Screams and shouts rang through the air, and passersby jumped out of the way.

  The cart narrowly missed the stall where Maris’s goldsmith was and trundled along without pause. As the crowd surged and ebbed, frantic to escape the runaway cart, Maris became separated from her party.

  “Lady!” Raymond shouted when he saw the horses running straight at her.

  She tried to duck out of the way, but the cart changed direction, following her as she dodged off the street. It rumbled along in her wake, tearing stalls from their moorings and knocking displays from their tables, gaining proximity as she stumbled down an
alley.

  Her lungs hurt and her leg ached where she tripped against the side of a stall, but Maris did not stop. The cart came closer, the noise barreling behind her like the rush of a huge wave, and she knew she would not come out of this alive.

  Suddenly, as the alley opened onto a wide street, she spied the stone enclosure of a public well. Heading for it, she said a quick prayer. Maris grabbed the heavy wooden framework that supported a large bucket and jumped up and out of the way of the cart.

  The cart stormed by, leaving dust in its wake, then disappeared down a side street.

  Raymond ran up, his face tight with fear, exclaiming, “Lady, lady, are you all right?”