by Колин Глисон
A heavy necklet of rubies and one large emerald sat about her neck, and three rings adorned her hands. Though Maris never wore such amounts of jewelry at Langumont, Allegra had warned that she must decorate herself so at court, else the strength and wealth of her title be questioned. Agnes had plaited her long red-brown hair into four braids and stuffed them into heavy gold hair-cases, then covered her head with a fine gold veil.
A knock came at the door and the maid opened it to find Lady Madelyne, along with her cousin by marriage, Lady Judith of Kentworth.
“You look lovely,” Madelyne said, her moonstone eyes lighting with approval. “I cannot believe how quickly the seamstresses worked.” Her hand rested on a subtly-rounded belly that rose beneath her own gowns, hardly noticeable in the voluminous folds of her skirt.
Judith, whose coppery hair shone from beneath a sheer wimple, agreed. “It isn’t that you weren’t dressed finely before, but now those lady cats can sheath their claws and keep their comments about country mice to themselves,” she said. “Although,” she added, looking at Maris with dancing blue eyes, “I suspect that you would have no problems clipping any claws that came too near you. Verily, that emerald is the size of a goose egg!”
Maris looked down at the jewel, suddenly uncertain. “Is it too large? Will the queen be annoyed?” She didn’t care if the other ladies envied her jewels, but she surely didn’t wish to flaunt her wealth if it would insult the queen.
“Oh, nay,” Judith said, laughing merrily. “’Twill just cause her to suggest that her husband raise the rents and taxes on Langumont. She will say that you obviously have too much excess in your coffers!” She looked at Madelyne, still grinning. “At the least you aren’t hiding them beneath your trunks, as Maddie tried to do.”
Madelyne gave a soft laugh when Maris looked at her in surprise. “Judith speaks the truth. I had to become used to wearing such baubles when I came to court, for I’d spent nearly a decade cloistered in an abbey, where everything was very simple. Even now, Gavin feels the need to prod me into showing off my finery.”
“Very well, then,” Maris said, comfortable now. “I shall flaunt my jewels beneath the queen’s very nose. Shall we be off?”
Upon entering the Great Hall, the three women made their way toward the trestle tables where Eleanor’s other ladies in waiting were seated. After her brief audience with the beautiful but austere queen two days earlier, Maris had been given a firm royal invitation—which amounted to nothing less than an order—to join Eleanor’s court until further notice.
The ladies had to pass in front of the royal dais as they wended their way through the rows of tables and hoards of self seeking courtiers. Intent upon her feet and their placement, Maris didn’t look up at the royal couple and their supper guests until Madelyne paused to sweep a curtsey in front of the queen.
“You look well, Lady Madelyne,” Eleanor said from her high seat. “Your condition agrees with you, and your husband too, I trow.”
“Thank you, your majesty,” Madelyne replied in her easy, serene way. “I only hope to look as fine and healthy as you have after the babe comes.”
Eleanor, who had just given birth a month earlier, smiled and gave her a look that seemed to say, Mayhap you will be as fortunate…but ’tis unlikely. “And good evening, Lady Maris,” said the queen, turning her attention from Madelyne. “I see that you have been visited by a seamstress since yestereve. And you have unearthed such lovely jewels from your trunks.”
“Aye, indeed, your Majesty,” Maris murmured, curtseying first to Eleanor and then to Henry. As she straightened, her gaze fell upon a tall figure just settling into his seat near the king.
Sir Dirick.
Their gazes clashed for a moment—his stormy blue and gray, remote and impersonal—before Maris pulled hers away.
But her heart was pounding and her palms felt clammy, and even the insides of her belly felt as if a flock of birds had taken flight therein. As her heart thumped in her throat, Maris kept her gaze averted and her chin lifted proudly. She gathered her skirts and followed Madelyne and Judith when they turned from the dais.
This was the first she’d seen of Dirick since their meeting in the king’s chambers two days earlier. One of the ladies had gossiped that Sir Dirick had been sent off on the king’s business, and Maris had hoped for his return to be long in coming.
Yet even as she took her seat, gracefully gathering up her gown to swing it over the bench, the image of his solemn face was foremost in her mind. In that brief moment, she’d noted how tired he looked. His face was drawn and deep lines creased his lean, tan cheeks. His thick, dark hair was pulled unstylishly from his face and tied at the nape of his neck.
Under the pretext of turning to fill her cup with wine, Maris sneaked another look at him. He was deep in conversation with the king, having taken a seat next to his lord instead of with a lady between them, as was proper. Their discussion seemed to be intense and humorless, and she wondered what they were discussing. Yet, even as she wondered that, she noticed the breadth of his shoulders next to that of the king, and the way his dark head loomed over that of the ginger-haired king. One sleeve of Dirick’s undertunic had fallen back to the elbow, revealing the hardness of his well toned, tanned forearm.
He looked up at that moment and Maris jerked her gaze away, lifting her cup quickly to hide her face. ’Twas her misfortune that the hasty swallow of sweet red wine choked her, and she was overcome by a fit of coughing. Once she’d regained her composure, a quick peek at the dais revealed that a complacent smirk had settled on Dirick’s face, making her certain he was laughing at her.
Feeling the warmth of a flush spread through her cheeks, Maris leaned toward Judith and Madelyne, forcing herself to concentrate on their conversation.
“Aye, an’ he’s not too telling upon the eyes,” Judith was saying with a sly look toward the high table. “But he knows it well, I vow. That kind always does. Gavin is well-acquainted with him, is he not, Maddie?”
“Aye. In fact, they both were pressed into service by the king on a recent problem related to some fief in the west. It kept Gavin traveling quite oft from here to there in the last two moons, and he would tell me naught of it.” Madelyne smoothed her hands over her pregnant belly as if to explain her husband’s reticence. “But his majesty was highly pleased at the result, and rewarded my husband well.”
Eager to join the conversation—any conversation—Maris said, “Of whom do you speak?”
“Aren’t you acquainted with Sir Dirick?” replied Madelyne.
Her face heating, Maris shook her head and took a nibble of roasted pheasant. “He and I have met but briefly, and did not find each other to our liking.”
“Is that so?” Judith turned a bemused look onto her. “I cannot imagine finding anything not to like about such a man. If I were the king, I vow I’d not allow the man to stand next to me.”
“Dirick de Arlande—” Maris began, but Judith interrupted her.
“Dirick de Arlande? Nay, you mean to say Dirick of Derkland, do you not?”
“Derkland?” Maris blinked, remembering the kind, giant of a man to whom her father had tried to betrothe her. But he’d only had eyes for Joanna of Swerthmore, and that had suited Maris just fine. “Does he have a brother named Bernard?”
“Indeed,” Madelyne said, watching her with interest. “Gavin knows the family well. There is also the middle brother, Thomas, who is a priest.”
Maris glanced up at the high table and saw Dirick looking at her with an arch expression. “Whatever his name might be,” she continued tartly, turning away, “Dirick of Whatnot is nothing like his elder brother, for Dirick is naught but an arrogant, rude, man at arms with little to his name but a fine destrier, which he no doubt won in some lucky moment of combat. He might have fooled the king, but he has naught to bring a woman but lies and tricks.”
Madelyne and Judith exchanged glances but neither spoke again, although Maris felt the latter’s assessing glance
on her.
She turned away and helped herself to a soft roasted turnip, ignoring the pang in her middle. The man was insufferable. And despite what Madelyne had said, she still had no reason to believe that he hadn’t participated gladly in her abduction, confidante of the king or nay.
She was just beginning to enjoy her meal when a heavy hand settled on her shoulder.
“My Lady Maris,” purred a familiar voice in her ear. “’Tis glad I am to see you in full possession of your health.”
Startled, she looked up to see Victor d’Arcy with a cold smile on his face.
~*~
Dirick stuffed a large chunk of bread into his mouth, watching as Victor d’Arcy approached Maris. The familiar surge of dislike oozed through him at the sight of the blonde man and he chewed rapidly.
The sound of the queen’s husky, pleasant laugh rang next to him, and she leaned closely enough to speak in his ear. Her exotic scent wrapped around him, drawing Dirick reluctantly from his thoughts.
“What ails you this night, Sir Dirick?” Eleanor asked. “You have the expression of one who’s eaten a lemon.”
Willing to be distracted, he turned to her, summoning his most charming smile. “Naught, your majesty, of any import. ’Tis only that I hoped to be closer to finding the man who has murdered my father—and the other men as well. And though I have spoken over and over to those who witnessed the scenes, and even examined the most recent one myself, I cannot seem to find a path to follow.” And so he had passed his time these last months after returning from Langumont and Breakston by setting to other tasks as ordered by the king.
The queen’s smile faded. Although at the first, she might seem a woman of mere frivolity and sensuality, Eleanor was as shrewd and serious as her husband when it came to her lands and the people thereon. “Aye, ’tis worrisome to my husband as well, for when and where shall this madman strike next? But he has great faith in you, sir, and you’ve never failed him before. I know that you and Gavin Mal Verne were attending to another matter in Wales only a moon past, and the king was well-pleased on the results.”
“Aye,” Dirick replied, referring to the Welsh problem that had kept him busy for more than a few fortnights. “Nary a life lost, and a rogue castellan imprisoned for his impudence.”
“And a fief, undamaged by besiegement, returned to my husband’s control,” Eleanor reminded him. “I know you were ill-pleased at being distracted from your other task, but mayhap a bit of space from it might allow your mind to clear a bit?”
“Aye, mayhap you are correct,” he replied. “But the death of Sir Harris only three days ago has made it clear that this murderer is still about, and must be nearby as well.”
Eleanor nodded. “Aye, and the weariness and frustration shows in your face and disposition. You have traveled far in the last days, and seen a horrific sight. Oh, aye, my husband has told me all,” she added when he looked at her in surprise. “He spares me naught, for which I am both grateful and, at times, dispirited. But for this night, Sir Dirick, why do you not take your mind from such evil thoughts and join my women? They always enjoy a knight with your penchant for poetry, and I have seen you cast your eyes that way more than once this evening.”
Unease curled in his stomach at the thought of facing Maris with the trite, empty phrases praising the lips and hair and forms of other women. He’d become quite popular with the ladies of the queen’s famous Court of Love years earlier, when Henry traveled to Aquitaine to woo Eleanor. Somehow, he could not picture Maris receiving such superficial praises without making him feel a fool.
“Pray, your grace, excuse me from fulfilling your request tonight. I am rather weary, and fear that my skills may desert me under such duress.”
Eleanor looked at him shrewdly. “Dirick of Derkland,” a smirk curved her well shaped mouth, “do you not feed me such a lie. The day that your skill with women deserts you is the day I cannot hold a man to me, should I wish to do so.” Despite her confident words, they both knew that her loyalty to the king was unequivocal. Now that the seriousness of their conversation had passed, her eyes twinkled as she made a little moue with her lips. Gently pressing a long nailed finger onto his forearm, she teased, “I vow, your disinterest can only mean one thing.”
As he was well and truly a man, Dirick could not help but respond to the femininity of the queen, for she smelled lush and erotic, and her skin and figure were feminine and beautiful. “Aye, your grace,” he replied in the flirtatious manner he knew she expected. “My disinterest could mean only this: that as you, my lady, are well beyond my reach, I have no stomach to play meaningless games with women who can be naught to me.” That latter part, at the least was true.
And though his charming smile may have fooled a less artful woman, Eleanor was not taken in. “Such pretty words trip from your beautiful mouth. I do envy the woman who finally steals your heart. And I relish the day of seeing you thus befuddled.” She took a sip of wine from her native lands, her thick lashed eyes watching him closely over the rim of the cup.
When she replaced the goblet, the expression on her face had changed from that of a coquette to one of certain knowledge. “An’, by the rood, it has happened, has it not?” Before he could open his mouth, she placed a hand over his. “Save your protestations, Dirick. Though the Courts of Love over which I’ve ruled consist of worshipful love from afar and knights honorably laving attention upon ladies out of their realm, I believe there is a place for a more earthy, reachable love—such as I have with my lord.” A genuine smile warmed her face. “Aye, Dirick, even love can be found in such an alliance as that of the Angevin and the Aquitaine.”
“Your majesty—”
“You’ve long been loyal to my husband, and, through him, to me. Though Henry oft does not see what is before his eyes, and may not hasten to reward those who are true to him, I do not.” Her glance flickered to the table of her ladies, casting over them as if to measure the possibility of whom he loved. “You’ll have her, Dirick. I will see to it.”
“But I did not say that I love her. I do not love her. I do not love anyone,” he stammered, feeling unaccountably overwhelmed by Eleanor’s all knowing demeanor. “And I have not sought out a single one of your ladies—how can you think this?”
She laughed her husky laugh again. “If ’tis true love, you shall not be able to hide it from me—or anyone who cares enough to watch. You’ll have her, Dirick, unless she is promised to another.” And with that, she turned from him to rejoin her husband’s conversation.
Chapter Seventeen
Wall sconces were the only light, and they cast flickering shadows upon the rough stone walls.
Despite the lack of natural illumination, the hallway was well enough lit for Maris to see the glint in Victor’s eyes. Her hand rested reluctantly on his forearm, as it had since he’d led her from the Great Hall, and she walked sedately beside him.
Maris couldn’t help but remember the last time she’d been alone with Victor—the time she’d raced her horse across the fields of Langumont in a rash challenge to his manhood. A little shiver raced up her spine as she relived the humiliating moments when his mouth invaded hers, and his hands groped her breasts.
“Have you taken a chill, my lady?” His voice was smooth and mellow with concern. “Take my mantle.” They paused beneath one of the sconces as he slid the cloak from his shoulders.
His hands, cold and rough, brushed her chin as he pulled the fur lined wool about her, taking much too long with the fastening at her throat. A finger brushed the line of her jaw, then slid underneath her chin, lifting it to raise her face. “You’ve yet to cast your eyes upon me this night, my wife.” With a slight movement, he shifted his finger and the nail pressed into the soft underside of her chin. “If I did not know better, I should say you are disappointed at my presence.”
Maris swallowed and attempted to keep her voice steady in her reply. “Aye, I confess, ’twas a surprise to see you here. As you’ve made no chance to contact me si
nce Papa’s…demise,” she said, “I had no choice but to presume you’d decided against our betrothal.”
A smile that was by no means meant to be soothing settled over his slender lips. “Ah, you’d like that, would you not, Lady Maris? You’d like nothing more than to see me walk away from the riches and power that Langumont would bring me.” His hand opened and slid down to cup her throat. She swallowed again and felt the constricting band of his fingers. “And the beautiful heiress that was promised me as well.”
“Nay,” she whispered, then gave a little gasp as the hand tightened—not enough to cut off her breath, but enough to threaten her. When she reached up to pull those fingers away, he was quick enough to snatch her wrists and force them down between their bodies.
“If you were not to be my wife,” he murmured, bending closer to her face, “I’d not have this at my pleasure.” His lips were cool and dry, but his tongue thrust hot and wet into her mouth.
Maris struggled to turn her face aside. His hand tightened, holding her head immobile as his mouth continued to delve into hers. She allowed her body to slacken in his grip, then rammed a knee into his belly, narrowly missing a more tender spot. Taking advantage of his shock and breathlessness, she jerked away and groped beneath her overtunic for her dagger.
As he straightened from his doubled over position, she met him with a glinting blade that rose with the level of his eyes. “Bitch!” he hissed, clumsily swiping at her wrist.
Maris easily avoided his lunge, but did not turn her attention from him as she began to back away. “If I am so unfortunate as to be forced to wed with you, you will never touch me in that manner again. Else,” she slowed her gasping breaths, “you’ll find a third party joining us in the bridal bed.” She brandished the dagger.
