A Whisper of Rosemary (22 page)

“
Would you like to bathe, my lady?” asked Agnes. “The warm water will ease your hurts.”

Indeed, Maris could smell the comforting scent of rosemary wafting from the tub that had been placed before the fire. “Aye, I think that I should do that, at the least.”

She struggled up from her repose on the bed, and Agnes, though less quick than her own maid Verna, was just as efficient in pulling off her filthy, stained shift and helping her into the tub.

Verna.

The thought of her maid shot into Maris’s mind and a well of fear and anger erupted within. How dare her own maid betray her in this manner! There was no doubt that Verna had lured her from the comforts of her own bed to the waiting arms of her kidnappers. Maris felt ill. She’d been betrayed by two people she trusted.

Then Maris recalled the violent sounds of Verna’s own fate. Swallowing back a lump in her throat, she tried not to think about what those sounds had meant.

Agnes, though awkward, was gentle as she washed the tangled mass of Maris’s long hair and bathed her with a faintly scented rosemary soap. In fact, Maris felt lulled by these familiar comforts as she struggled to determine a strategy. She must have a plan, for she had no intention of wedding the coarse, greasy Bon de Savrille.

Verily, her father had noted her disappearance by now. That realization gave her some ease. If anyone could rescue her, her father could. All Maris had to do, she realized, was delay Bon’s intent—for it didn’t make sense that he’d plan to hurt his intended bride—until her father could get there. He’d besiege the keep, take it apart stone by stone, brick by brick, to get to her.

Maris drew in the first easy breath since her abduction two days ago. She must stall and delay and play along with Bon de Savrille and his game.

Agnes helped her out of the tub and to a stool that sat before the fire. Maris, wrapped in a woolen blanket, stared into the flames as the maid tugged a wooden comb through her hopelessly snarled hair.

“
Yer hair is beautiful, my lady,” said Agnes, breaking the silence.

Although Maris did not feel inclined toward conversation, she responded, “Many thanks, Agnes.”

“
My lord wishes for you to sup with him this eve,” Agnes told her. “Do you wish for me to say you are still ill?”

Maris was silent for a moment, considering. How she would love to remain ensconced in this chamber, away from the prying, greedy eyes of her kidnapper…yet, the start of a plan had already begun to formulate in her mind, and she needed more information to know if ’twould work.

“
Nay, Agnes,” she replied after a moment. “I shall sup with Lord Bon, as he wishes. It does not seem prudent to anger him, aye?” Hoping to learn more about her captor, and as yet unsure whether Agnes would be a help or a hindrance to her, she craned her head to look back at the maid.

“
Oh, aye, my lady, my lord has a brutal temper,” agreed Agnes. “An’ one ne’er knows when ’twill break.” She could not suppress a shudder. “Yet, my lady, he seems overly fond of you…in fact, I have heard stories that when he is in his cups, he sings love ballads in your honor.”

“
Indeed?” Maris could not hide the shocked expression on her face.

“
My lady,” began Agnes, hesitating. She took a deep breath and began again, “My lady, you did not come here of your own will, I trow.”

Maris gave a short, humorless bark of laughter. “Nay, Agnes, of course I do not. I would wed with no man under my own will. Yet, I have a betrothed of my father’s wishes that I have been snatched from…though he is hardly no more a prize than is Lord Bon.”

“
My lady, I would—I would do all I may to help you…an’….” Agnes swallowed, trembling, her eyes fearful as she looked up at Maris. “I would ask a boon, my lady. I know ’tis unseemly to ask, my lady,” her words now tumbled out as if she could not stop them, “but I would wish to leave here in exchange for—for helping you.”

Maris turned a cool gaze on the frightened maid before her. A prickle of mistrust niggled up her spine. “How might I help you leave as I am my own prisoner here?” she asked.

“
My lady, you are the daughter of a powerful lord, ’tis certain that he or your betrothed will come for you,” Agnes whispered, yet cowering as if waiting for a hand to strike her face. “An’ I would go with you when they come.”

“
You are mistreated?” Maris asked mildly.

Although she’d never been approached by a servant requesting aid, it was not an uncommon occurrence. The serfs that were bound to a land were also bound to its master, and even though she may escape with the help of her father, stealing a serf was another matter entirely. “I cannot take you from your master.”

“
My lady.” Agnes swallowed heavily, then continued, “I am a freewoman, my father a merchant near York, when I was taken from him. I wish only to be free from Lord Bon.” She unconsciously touched the purple scar. “’Tis but a reminder of his anger.” Tears welled in her eyes, and despite her misgivings, Maris felt sympathy washing over her.

“
As you shall help me, I vow repayment in kind,” she told the other woman, who, by mere misdirection of the Fates, was serving her rather than living the life of a merchant’s wife. Ofttimes, the family of a merchant was even wealthier than those of the nobility, whose wealth lay in the land rather than commercial goods. She could not leave Agnes here.

“
Thank you my lady!” Agnes fell to her knees, the tears tumbling forth. “Praise God and thank you!”

“
Now, then.” Maris became business like and drew the maid to her feet. “We must have a strategy. You must tell me all that you know about my lord and his plans, and we shall decide how to proceed from there.”

As the women plotted in the abovestairs chamber, taking care to keep their voices at a low level, a different scene unfolded below.

Dirick had not missed the look of shock, and then loathing, that had flitted across Maris’s face when she saw him. Fortunately, she’d slumped to the floor before announcing thus to the entire great hall, and he considered that not a small bit of good fortune.

And though no one else seemed to notice her reaction, he felt her anger slice through him, followed by a stifling fear when Bon de Savrille gathered her up in his arms to carry her above. Dirick almost started after them, determined to do whatever he had to in order to protect the lady’s virtue.

He would have, in fact, done so if he’d not noticed Edwin Baegot watching him carefully. Despite his urgent desire to protect her, Dirick forced himself to remain still. He would be no help to Maris of Langumont if Bon learned his true reason for being there.

When Dirick heard the lord of the keep bellowing for hot water to be brought to the above stairs chamber, and then the heavy footsteps of Bon himself returning to the hall, he realized he had some time yet before Maris and her maidenhead were in danger—assuming that Victor d’Arcy hadn’t already helped himself to it.

Sinking onto a short stool, Dirick stared into the fire that snapped viciously in its enclosure.

First, he must send a message to Merle of Langumont. Finding someone in the village that could be trusted would be a battle in itself, but a healthy palm of coin would ease the way.

Then, he mused, plucking at a string on his tunic, he must find a way to delay the imminent wedding while protecting Maris’s virtue: all without arousing his host’s suspicion.

~*~

Dirick was just returning from his sojourn to the village—ostensibly to visit a whore—when the keep’s inhabitants were shoving and jostling for place for the evening meal. He’d paid a heavy coin to a young man to carry the message to Langumont, as well as promising him that Merle would place him in his household as reward for defying Bon de Savrille.

Pushing his way between two men at arms who were arguing about the most desirable quality in a destrier—its weight or its thirst for blood—Dirick was able to find a place on the third bench from the dais. Hoisting a leg over the crude bench, he nudged at one of the hounds that slept beneath the table, moving the dog so he could take his seat.

Glancing at the high table, he saw Bon sitting in his large, throne like chair. The bearded man sent expectant looks toward the stairs between strains of his conversation with Edwin, who sat at his left. Dirick was surprised to note that Bon seemed to have tidied his appearance. His beard was trimmed for the first time in three days, and the tunic he wore was not despoiled with any stains or tears. Even the man’s dark hair had been subdued, brushed back from his high forehead and leaving wings of gray at his temples.

There was a murmur at the back of the hall, and, the nape of his neck prickling with expectancy, Dirick turned to see Maris descending the stairs. Voices quieted and Bon’s attention snapped to the woman who wended her way between the benches and tables. A tall, fierce looking man with a hooked nose followed in her wake.

The hall seemed to have frozen in time, all conversation dying, as Maris passed through. She did not at all look like a maiden who had been kidnapped from her beloved father, wrapped in a tapestry for a day, dumped into a room of gawking men, and threatened with an unwanted marriage. She looked regal, confident, and incredibly beautiful.

Someone—Dirick assumed that it was the scar faced Agnes—had combed through the length of rich brown hair, coiling a huge mass of it intricately at the back of her head. She wore no wimple, and a great length of it, glinting gold and chestnut in the candlelight, fell from the coil, brushing the backs of her thighs as she walked. The gown she wore, though not as fine as one she might have worn at Langumont, was more than appropriate for this ramshackle hall. The blue of the gown was so deep it shone like the midnight sky, and bright yellow embroidery trailed along the edges of long sleeves that nearly brushed the floor. A girdle encircled her waist and she wore a heavy chain of gold links around her neck.

Dirick took a deep steadying breath. How could she look so beautiful and unconcerned when she was in so much danger? Had she realized by now that he would help her, that she had naught to fear from him?

Maris took her time making her way to the high table where Bon awaited her. The hook nosed man that trod upon the train of her gown was Sensel, the guard appointed to watch over her. She breathed easily, keeping her pace slow as she fought to maintain her composure.

Papa is on his way. Papa is coming.
She repeated the chant over and over in her mind.

When she reached the high table, Maris almost lost her nerve. But then, steeling herself, she took the last step and swept into a beautiful curtsey at Bon’s feet. “My lord,” she murmured, looking at the battered boots he wore.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then she heard a rumbling voice. “And see you, Edwin, the honor my wife pays me.” Bon stepped down from the dais, taking Maris’s hand and raising her to her full height. She modestly kept her eyes downcast until he said, “My lady, ’tis I who am honored at your presence. Come you and sup with me.”

Maris barely restrained a nervous giggle. Honored at her presence, indeed. As if she’d found her own way to Breakston—wherever that was. “Thank you, my lord.”

Bon was solicitous as he assisted her onto the bench next to his place. “I had half expected to drag you kicking and screaming down to sup with me,” he said, filling her goblet with thin wine. “Sensel had my orders. ’Tis glad I am that you chose to obey my wishes.” His steely blue stare fastened upon her.

Maris looked at him from under her long lashes, refusing to be intimidated by his glare. “Aye, my lord, your wish that I join you—and not only for supper—was quite evident,” she said demurely. “Yet, I beg that any future travel arrangements you make for me will have more care to my comfort than these last.”

Surprised, Bon laughed, turning every head in the hall back to the dais. He cocked his head to one side, taking a large gulp of wine. “And have you any other requests regarding your comfort, my lady?”

One of the serfs approached with a wooden platter of food, followed by another with several bread trenchers. Bon, as gallantly as any courtier, chose bits of meat and potatoes for them, placing the choicest pieces of rabbit on her side of the trencher.

Maris favored him with a brilliant smile, and its brightness seemed to be enough to stun even the sour Edwin, for he smiled in return.

“
My lord, how kind of you to ask after my comfort,” she said sweetly, dragging a crust of hard bread through the meat’s juices. “There are a few suggestions I might make, my lord. For I am to be your chatelaine, am I not? I should not wish your hall to seem lacking to any visitors.”