by Колин Глисон
Victor would have grabbed for her wrist again had the sound of voices not reached their ears. As it was, he pinned her with a look filled with hatred before swiveling on his heel and starting off in the direction from whence they’d come.
Miraculously, the approaching voices faded away, leaving Maris alone in the dank hallway. She ripped Victor’s mantle from her shoulders, flinging it into a corner. A tapestry fluttered against the wall above her head, but all else was still. She slumped against the cold stone, relieved, and struggled to stop the trembling that made her knees weak.
“Bis!” came a voice from the shadows. “Well done, my lady.”
Maris whirled to see Dirick materializing from a dark alcove. “You!” she gasped, fury lighting her face. “Again?”
He stood, leaning against the wall, arms folded nonchalantly across his middle. “’Twas a close one, that, Maris. I was near ready to step in to assist you.” The hardness in his grey-blue eyes belied his seeming ease, and his gaze covered her as if to assure himself she was unharmed.
“What do you here?” she demanded, stepping back and finding the rough wall behind her. She angled the blade of the dagger as if to ward him off.
Dirick stepped closer, blocking the light from the torch behind him. Maris’s heart bumped in her throat and her breath became shallow. “I suspected you might find yourself in danger when you left the hall in his presence.”
“I do not need your help,” she hissed. “I want nothing from you!”
“Ah. But that is where we differ. I most definitely want something from you, Lady Maris.”
Her heart leapt, and sweat sprang from her palms even as a rush of heat flooded her. His eyes were so very dark and hard, gleaming with something intent, indefinable, and the hard set of his mouth bespoke of little patience. His calm intensity unsettled her as Victor’s rough anger had not. She edged the dagger in warning. “What—what is it you want?”
“I want a great many things, Maris.” He stepped into the pool of torchlight, drawing close enough that the dagger’s blade wavered near his shoulder. “But my greatest desire is to hear an apology on your lovely lips.”
Suddenly, his hand shot out and closed around her wrist. Knowing the futility of struggle, she allowed the dagger to fall from nerveless fingers and it clattered to the floor.
She looked up at him, unable to speak…hardly able to keep her breath steady. He was close, so close and tall, broad and warm…familiar. She could even smell the clean, masculine scent of him above the scent of damp wool and clinging wood smoke.
“Come now, Maris, it cannot be that words have failed you.” His smile was arrogant, then faded into bitterness. “On the last we met, you accused me of treason in the presence of my lord…and, on the time before that, you left me to die in a pool of my own leavings.”
“I did not leave you to die,” she burst out, finding her voice. “I am a healer and I well knew what I did.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Oh, aye, of course that is what you say when faced with the other choice of admitting that you tried to kill me.” He leaned forward, so near that she could see the blue and black flecks in his furious eyes. “Did I not risk my life to help you at Breakston? First you repay me by attempting murder…and then, failing that, by trying to see me hanged for treason.” His fingers tightened around her wrist. “I should be praised for not choking the life out of you, woman.”
“Leave me be!” She wrenched out of his grip. She could have fled, running down the hall away from him…but she did not. Nay, and Maris would never understand why she did such a foolish thing and stay.
“Leave you be?” he said. His voice had changed and he was looking at her with such intensity that Maris suddenly felt weak. And flushed. And…expectant. “Do you not think I’ve tried that simple solution?”
When he stepped toward her again, she found that she still couldn’t move. Her heart was in her throat, pounding sharply and rapidly while her breathing turned shallow.
“I’ve been waiting quite some time to exact my vengeance for the dirty trick you played on me at Breakston,” he said, holding her gaze with his, the scuff of his boot brushing her hem. “And since an apology does not seem to be forthcoming, I may have to demand a different sort of boon, my lady.” His lips softened as he searched her eyes with his own. “Aye. I believe you owe me a boon.”
“Dirick—”
“’Tis sweet to hear my name on your lips, Maris.”
Then his hands were on her shoulders, pulling her to him. As their bodies collided gently, his arms went around her and Maris closed her eyes. The next thing she knew, he was devouring her mouth, tasting it as if he’d been without food for a fortnight. And as she slackened in his arms, and began to kiss him back, she felt the low rumble of a moan from deep in his chest as his arms tightened.
His rough, calloused hands tenderly smoothed over the sensitive line of her jaw, brushing their knuckles against her ear, trailing a fingertip down the sleek line of her neck and leaving a shiver in its wake. They plucked at the veil that covered her thick braids, freeing them from their confines and loosing them from the intricate plaits that held them prisoner.
Maris sighed against his mouth, against the warmth and sleekness of his kiss, the insistent delving and dancing of their tongues. He smelled of wine and smoke from the fire, of horses and leather, of wool and a tinge of sweat, of…maleness. She could not help herself, but reached to touch the thick, dark hair that had come loose from its leather thong and found that it was heavy and soft. With light fingertips, she tucked the lock behind his ear and allowed her hand to fall along his warm neck, where a pulse pounded strongly, and rested her palm on the plateau of his chest. The stone wall was cold against her back, and the heat from his body burning against her breasts, hips, and thighs. A sharp pleasant twinge surprised her when one large hand slid up to cup one of her breasts, closing over its firmness, to thumb over her thrusting nipple, to gently massage its heaviness.
“’Sblood,” he breathed into her ear, his words warm and rough. “How easily you make me lose my anger, lovely witch. And try as I may, as far as I travel, I cannot seem to banish you from my mind.” He pulled away enough to look down into her eyes.
His gaze was hot and dark, and Maris’s insides fluttered, bursting into a sharp pang of pleasure and desire. “Dirick,” she managed to whisper before he pushed her against the wall again, his mouth covering hers.
This time it was she who pulled away, for the depth and strength of her response to this man frightened her. Maris stood motionless as her breathing began to slow, as the world around her began to come back into focus.
“You say you came to save me,” her voice was husky, “yet I do not know that the danger has passed even now.” She turned, bending to pick up the veil lying crushed on the floor, stunned by the desire she’d felt…and afraid of what it meant. Even if it were more than mere passion, they could never act on it.
Thus Maris forced her voice into steadiness, hardness. “It was not so great a boon you asked, Sir Dirick Derkland. Oh, aye, I have learned your true name by now. Nay, it was no great boon you’ve taken, for I have been groped by no less than two other men…both of whom, verily, had more claim to do so than yourself.”
He stepped back as if slapped. “I am well aware that I have no claim to you…nor—” He paused, then continued, “Do not misunderstand, nor do I wish to claim you.” Dirick stepped aside, his movements rigid and his face dark. “I’ll not bother you with my presence any longer than to see you safely to your chamber.” He bent to pick up the dagger lying harmlessly in the pool of light.
When he straightened, the fierce look in his eyes was enough to make her back away. All at once, those grey eyes glittered with an anger and hatred that she had never seen before. “What is it?” she breathed, her hand going to her throat as his hand shot out to grab her arm.
“Where did you get this?” His face filled her vision, fingers tight over her skin. “Tell me, where did you
get this dagger?”
“I—’twas Papa’s,” she stammered, drawing as far away as his grasp would allow. “Release me.”
“How did he come by it?” Dirick ignored her demand, staring at the silver handled dagger as if he’d seen a ghost.
Maris tried to jerk away, but her puny strength was naught against his ferocity, and this time, he was not playing. “I do not know! What is it to you?” she replied, becoming truly afraid. “You are bruising me, Dirick.”
With an oath, as if he’d just realized his strength, he released her arm. Maris backed away, rubbing the spot he’d gripped, staring at him in horror. What had befallen him?
“Where did you get this dagger?” he asked again, controlled but still intent upon the small weapon.
“I’ve told you—’twas my papa’s. I found it in a trunk when I packed to come to court,” Maris explained. Still wary of his sudden temper, she sidled along the wall.
“Do not fear, I’ll not harm you again,” he told her wearily. Then he looked at her with that intensity again. “If I replace it for you, may I keep this?”
She shook her head. “Nay, please do not ask that of me. It’s one of few things I have left from Papa.” She knew that he would keep it if he liked, so when he handed it back to her, she breathed a sigh of relief.
“I did not ever express my sorrow at your father’s death,” Dirick said, his face grave. “He was a good man. He reminded me of my own father.”
Maris nodded, sudden tears choking her throat. She’d become adept at stopping the tears of grief, now, more than three moons since Papa’s death…but the pain had not lessened. “I miss him terribly,” she admitted.
“As I do my father.”
“I did not know you’ve lost your father as well,” she said. It struck her at that moment that she knew nothing of his family or of whence he came. Only that the king seemed to place great trust in him.
“A knife such as this,” Dirick said, “the workmanship of which I’ve never seen before or since, was found at the scene of a murder…and that murder scene was identical to the one at which my father was found.” Dirick’s eyes held a sober pain. “At the king’s command, I’m searching for the man who has now killed seven people, leaving behind three scenes of the most senseless slaughter in England.”
“I’ve heard naught of such killings,” she told him.
He nodded. “And I trow you’ll hear little else. Do you not speak of this to anyone until the man is found…I do not wish him to know that I am on his trail. Come,” he was suddenly abrupt, “I will take you to your chamber.”
Ignoring Victor’s cloak, which still lay in its ignoble heap on the cold floor, Maris turned, sweeping her skirts, and without further conversation, allowed him to return her to her chamber.
Chapter Eightteen
“Lady Maris, her majesty requests that you attend her.” A page stood in the doorway of the ladies’ solar, giving a slight bow. “She asks that you bring your bag of herbal medicines, for she is in need of your skills.”
Maris sprang to her feet, at once nervous that she would be asked to personally attend the queen, and grateful that she would have something to do other than embroidering in a room filled with chattering women. Judith had been smart enough to beg off from sewing tasks today in favor of taking her gyrfalcon for a brief hunt, leaving Maris with the idea that mayhap she would acquire herself a hunting falcon.
“Please tell her majesty that I will be at her service anon,” she told the page.
He gave another bow and remained at the door. “I will take you to her, lady.”
With a quick smile to the other women, who looked on with interest, Maris dropped her embroidery in a heap on a stool next to her chair, hoping to not see it again before the day was over. “I shall meet you at supper,” she told Madelyne, who was busily stitching a surcoat for Lord Gavin. Without waiting for a reply, she swept from the room and directed the page to her chamber.
Within, she unlocked one of the trunks she’d brought from Langumont, retrieving a well worn leather sack with dried herbs packed in wrappings of linen, wool, or leather. Digging deeper, she pulled a wooden box, tied shut with a silken tie, from the bottom of the trunk. The box held a mortar and pestle, tinctures and oils, knives and spoons and small wooden bowls for mixing. Though it was likely that the queen already had such tools available to her, Maris felt more comfortable with her own equipment and was determined to be prepared for any request Eleanor should make.
The trip to the queen’s presence was not long, but it was complicated, and Maris soon lost her way. Not for the first time did she wonder that a young boy could find his way with such ease. At last, they reached a large oaken door with heavy metal slats bracing it, and ornate carvings on the wood framing the doorway.
The page knocked on the heavy oak, then, although Maris heard nothing from within, bowed yet again, and gestured for her to enter.
She opened the door and stepped in.
Eleanor sat in a large, well cushioned chair lodged in a far corner. A small table next to her held a pitcher, two goblets, and a silver platter loaded with cheese and bread. The fireplace, near enough the chair to cast shadows from its flames but far enough that there was no danger of skirts catching afire, contained a crackling blaze. Another chair, positioned to face that which the queen used, was not so well cushioned; though the pillow on its seat was generous enough. A thick, heavy tapestry covered the floor, Maris noted in surprise, having never seen such a luxury before, and more tapestries hung from the walls and over the arrow slits in the stone.
“Come in, Lady Maris,” came the mellow voice of the queen.
Maris did as she was urged, closing the door in her wake, and taking in more of the room. A large, curtained bed hugged another wall, and was warmed by its own fireplace—it, too, filled with a roaring fire. A table littered with parchments, quills, and a pot of ink sat near the two chairs, and trunks bursting with gowns, cloaks, cups, plates, cloths, leather bags, and all types of trinkets lined the walls throughout.
“Your majesty.” Maris curtsied when she reached the edge of the luxurious floor covering.
Eleanor waved a graceful hand to an empty chair next to the table. “Sit.”
Maris’s quick glance about the room revealed that she was alone with the queen, and she wondered whether her grace’s affliction was that of a private nature. Placing her leather sack and wooden box on the floor, she did as ordered and sat, waiting.
“You may pour some wine, Lady Maris.”
Accepting this as an invitation to serve both herself and the queen, Maris filled two of the goblets with a heavy red wine. “How may I assist you?” she asked, placing a cup within Eleanor’s easy reach.
“You are well versed in healing and the use of physic herbs I am told. Your skills surpass even that of Madelyne of Mal Verne.”
Maris bowed her head in acknowledgement. “I have studied such medicines since I was ten summers.”
Reaching for her drink with long white fingers, the queen said, “Tell me how you were taught.”
Sipping her own wine, Maris explained, “My mother, Allegra Lareux, began to teach me the simple uses of herbs. As I became more skilled and yearned to know beyond her knowledge, I studied with a midwife of Langumont. Some years ago, a man well taught in the healing of the Holy Lands lived at Langumont and shared his great mastery with me.” Emboldened by the queen’s interest, she asked, “How did you come to hear of my skills?”
A faint smile quirked Eleanor’s lips as she drank. Her blue eyes were shrewd. “I am told by a trusted friend that your skill is so great that you can bring a man—nay, a whole keep, the tale goes—near enough to death that he wishes to die, yet not so close that he does expire.”
Maris felt her face heat to what was surely dark rose in color, and she was suddenly fearful that she’d been brought here for reprimand. “I am ashamed that you should hear of my expertise in such a sorry way. ’Tis not the way I was taught—”
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Eleanor laughed. “Do you not apologize, Maris, as I am of the mind to reward a woman—not reprimand her—when she rises to an occasion to save herself! Does the Church not say that God helps those who help themselves?” She reached for a piece of cheese. “I am one to espouse such actions if the end justifies the means.” She chuckled again. “It would have been an interesting sight to see an entire keep laid low whilst yourself and your maidservant tripped blithely over the drawbridge.”
“It was a more memorable moment in my history,” Maris admitted with a wry smile, “though I would never choose the words ‘tripping blithely’ to describe our hasty departure.” She took a sip of wine, wondering that Dirick had such familiarity with the queen that he should tell her of his own misfortune. ’Twas a testament to his own cocksureness that he would freely share of an event in which he was bested by a woman. “My lady, how may I assist you?”
“’Tis a minor affliction, Lady Maris—naught but an ache to my ear. I often have the same complaint during the winter months, and most often, the leeches or physicians direct me to soak my feet in a bath of hot water with ground mustard seeds.” She settled back into her chair, her gaze direct upon Maris whilst her fingers stroked the tassel of her girdle. “‘Tis not the most convenient treatment and I but search for another answer to this illness.”
Maris nodded her head in understanding. She found it not at all surprising that the beautiful and regal Eleanor of Aquitaine would not wish to do something as ungainly as to soak her bare feet, particularly among her ladies and courtiers. “Tell me, does the pain in your ear feel like the beat of a drum, or more like a sharp pinch of pain?”
“’Tis most like the beat of a drum, far inside my ear.”
“Is it accompanied with a sound like the peal of a bell as well?”
“Nay.”
“And, tell me, your majesty, have you any other complaints at the same time you have this ache of the ear?”
“Nay.”
