A Whisper of Rosemary mhg-3

by Колин Глисон

  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 vows 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.

  “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 Ver
mille 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. The 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.