A Whisper Of Rosemary

Page 10

She tsked at herself, fearing that the cat’s reaction was merely a foreshadowing of what her father would say if he heard of her unladylike gibe at Sir Dirick. She couldn’t keep from glancing again toward the common sleeping area, where he was likely sprawled out on his pallet.
For a moment, she imagined his thick dark hair tufted and curling where he rested his head, his pleasing face lax and smooth in his rest. Mayhap an arm would be thrown out, away from his blanketed body…or a leg might be lying atop the woolen blanket whilst the rest of him slumbered in comfort. His disturbing grey-blue eyes would be closed in sleep—those eyes that looked at her with such intensity that her heart dodged about in her chest. Yet, when they were not focused on her, she’d noticed that they were a soft, cloud like grey, flecked with blue. The color of Langumont Bay on a winter day, and fringed with the longest, darkest lashes she’d ever seen, or noticed, on a man.
Maris started, realizing in confusion that she had paused in the hall and stood, staring toward the sleeping area as these thoughts danced through her mind. Though no one was about to see her actions, her cheeks warmed and she turned resolutely away. Although there was no harm in mooning over one’s betrothed, she had balked against marriage for so long that it felt odd for her to relish the thought of knowing all aspects of a man’s body. Maris gathered up her heavy wool tunic and draped it over her arm as she stepped over an up ended bench.
The kitchen was deserted except for Bit, the daughter of the cook, who slept in the corner on empty flour sacks. One large blue eye opened as Maris approached, and a yawn cracked across the pudgy, dirty face.
“Milady!” she started awake and jerked to her feet.
“Go back to your bed, Bit,” Maris told her. “’Tis well before matins, and all are sleeping soundly but myself and the cat.”
She turned to root about in an apple barrel, and, finding a barely bruised one, she polished it against the soft blue wool still draped over her wrist. She broke her fast with a piece of day old bread, found wrapped in cloth under a board, and a large swallow of watered down ale.
She made her way out into the bitter morning, crunching the apple. It was nearly as dark as the night she’d trudged home from Thomas the cooper’s wretched home. Stars lit the dark blue heavens, and a large moon still hung in their midst. Despite the cold, Maris stopped for a moment to look up. She drew her squirrel lined cloak tighter about her shoulders as she stood in the center of the silent bailey. The only other creatures stirring were her father’s midnight watch, posted on the north and south walls of the bailey. Sir Richard, on the north wall, saw Maris and waved in greeting and recognition.
She waved back, and, finishing the last of her apple, pocketed the core for Hickory. A shiver took her by surprise, and she hurried on her way to the stable where the presence of the horses would make it warm.
It was indeed warmer in the old building, but much darker. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but then she could just make out the moving grey shapes of the horses. Maris clicked her tongue hello and moved down the length of the stable to where her mare nickered in greeting.
She buried her hands in Hickory’s warm brown mane, to warm them as much as to say hello. Stroking the mare’s neck, she spoke soothingly to her as the horse poked her velvety nose into the folds of Maris’s cloak. Her mistress never visited without a treat, and the rest of her apple was discovered and quickly munched down.
“How is your leg?” Maris asked her friend softly, kneeling in the stall. She pushed the hood of her cloak back from her face and ran sure hands along Hickory’s foreleg. The mare didn’t wince, and she unwrapped the bindings to find the swelling nearly gone.
“Ah, you are feeling much better,” she crooned. “We’ll be off to hunt the wild boar on the morrow, sweet Hickory,” Maris whispered as she stood to caress the velvety nose that bumped her head. “We’ll tear the beastie into little pieces, aye, will we not?”
“And what says your father of this plan to snare the wild boar?” The voice behind startled her and she whirled about, heart lodging in her throat.
“Sir Dirick, that was not very nice,” she told him indignantly as she tried to slow her thumping heart. “I could have been talking about you!”
He gave a short laugh. “And mayhap it would have served me right if you had,” he said with better humor than she’d expected.
Awakened much too early by the terrible, haunting dreams of his father’s death, Dirick had been in the corner of the hall and seen Maris slip from the keep in her brilliant blue cloak. Looking for an excuse to escape from the darkness of those dreams, Dirick had taken the opportunity to follow her.
He must spend another day or two at Langumont while he waited for word as to whether Bon de Savrille was in Breakston, and Dirick intended to keep his mind and body occupied so that he didn’t fall into the despair of grief and anger over his need to find Father’s murderer. Lord Merle had promised him some training to keep his body active, and the puzzle of his daughter would serve to intrigue his mind. Soon, he would be on his way on the king’s business…and then to his own matters.
“It seems much too early for a lady to be about her business, whatever that may be,” Dirick commented, squinting in the dim light.
“Aye,” she replied. “But ’tis the quietest part of the day, and I wished to see about Hickory’s foreleg.”
It was starting to get lighter, and the dark grey shadows began to take on muted colors and details as they stood in the stable. Dirick could see that Maris’s hair was uncovered, hanging in a fat braid over one shoulder. He felt a strange intimacy with her, seeing her hair. Although many maids at court had begun to disdain the covering wimples, it was obvious that in Merle’s household they were standard ware, for both ladies had worn them last night. He couldn’t tell what color Maris’s braid was, though, and for some reason, he needed to know.
“And the night?” Dirick asked pointedly. “Is that also a quiet time for a noble lady to go about her business?”
She had cocked her head like a falcon, as if trying to read the second meaning in his words. “Aye, there are times my tasks take me out in the night.”
“And what is it that brings the Lady of Langumont to walk the streets—alone—in the darkness?” He held her gaze steadily in the dimness, determined to receive an answer as to what she’d been doing on her own in the village in the middle of the night.
To his surprise, she laughed. “Ah, Sir Dirick, are you so protective of my reputation that you refuse to go to Papa with your evil suspicions? But of course you do not wish your betrothed to be seen wandering the streets at night—at the least, if you do not know the reason why.” Her hand came to rest lightly on his arm as she became serious. “Do you not fear for my reputation, Sir Dirick. I but came from the bedside of the cooper’s wife, after that long, difficult day of birthing her sons. I fear I was not in the best of tempers when you bore down on me.”
The dawn broke over Dirick so that he almost missed the detail one of her comments. “Please accept my apologies for my rude behavior,” he said with chagrin, then, as his mouth caught up with his brain, he repeated incredulously, “Betrothed?”
Maris had returned to stroking Hickory’s nose, turning her back to him as if to hide her expression. “Aye, sir, ’tis not a secret that you are here to speak on my hand. ’Tis—”
“How came you by such a notion?” Dirick exclaimed. To speak of a marriage contract only the day after meeting Lord Merle and his daughter was, to the least, embarrassingly rude. Beside that, marriage was the last thing on his mind—he had no lands to bring a wife, nor any wish to be saddled with one woman when God had put so many beautiful ones on His earth. “My lady, ’tis not at all the purpose of my visit.”
“Forgive me,” Maris broke in, relief and mortification in her voice. “I meant not to be—I bethought you were the man to which Papa means to betrothe me.”
“Your papa did say you are not yet betrothed,” he told her, regaining his faculties. Now he recalled Lord Merle’s missive from the day before, and the imminent arrival of the betrothal candidate. ’Twas an honest mistake on the lady’s part.
“Nay, I am not yet betrothed, nor am I desirous of having my person bartered over,” Maris replied tartly. She looked up at him, and he was surprised to be able to make out the shape and the flecks of green in her eyes now, in the dawning light. “Papa has stopped urging me to find a man to my liking.” Her face fell, and she returned to stroking Hickory’s velvet nose, “Because I have not made a decision, he has chosen my husband.”
Dirick was taken aback by her forthright opinions. Most maids were at the least betrothed by age fifteen, and a good majority of them wed, and before him stood a woman of more than seventeen summers calmly declaring she had not found a man to her liking and was unlikely to do so. It was unnatural.
Maris interrupted his thoughts. “What, then, do you here at Langumont if not to look me over, check my teeth, and set a dower price?”
Dirick managed to neither smile nor grimace at her words, which made the whole process sound callous. “As your father said last evening, I am lately come from Paris and travel through the area, looking to work for a lord such as your father.”
“Aye?” she asked, an odd tone in her voice. “It seems you have much knowledge of Henry’s court for one come so newly from France.”
“King Louis keeps many eyes on the court of the man who stole his wife,” Dirick replied smoothly.
“Such beautiful horseflesh you have for an itinerant knight,” she said.
Dirick looked at her, certain that the innocence in her voice was feigned, but unwilling to believe that she could be suspicious of him. What did a woman know of horseflesh? He decided to divert her attention. “Aye, I have an eye for good horseflesh…among other pleasures.”
Maris flushed and turned away. “Did you partake of such pleasures last night?” she threw back without looking at him.