A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden 3)

At last she took a hesitant step forward, and then another, until she could see into the dark, cavern like interior. The only light came from a blazing fire in the far corner.

“Are ye comin’ in er not?” a voice suddenly shrieked.

Verna started, but was galvanized to move forward. “Dame Marthe,” she whispered, crossing the threshold into the meager hovel.

Inside, she found a room filled with an assortment of tables and stools, and each stick of furniture was cluttered with crude wooden bowls and utensils. A heavy odor pervaded the room, and she saw what looked like the remains of several animals on a nearby table. The huge black cat was nowhere to be seen.

At first, Verna didn’t see the tiny, wizened lady ensconsed in a corner chair. But when her eyes finally rested on Dame Marthe, they were held there by a cold, rheumy blue pair. The crone’s face had more lines in it than a linen altar cloth, and her mouth was yet one more deep line. Spidery wrinkles radiated from the place her lips would be, and whe

n she opened the lipless orifice to speak, Verna caught a glimpse of one stump of a tooth.

“My, my! A pretty lady has come to call!” the hag cackled with poorly concealed distaste. “And who might ye be?”

Verna swallowed, but forced herself to speak with confidence. “Verna of Langumont,” she answered. “Lady of Langumont. ”

Overcome with mirth, Dame Marthe nearly fell off her rickety stool. “Lady of Langumont in a pig’s eye, ye are!” she returned harshly. “Ye’re no more The Lady than I am the Blessed Virgin!”

Verna nearly winced at the blasphemy. She’d deviated too much to devote any thought to such mundane cares as blasphemes. “I shall be Lady of Langumont, old woman—my time will come. My time will come with help from you. ”

The hag contained her laughter; then her runny eyes narrowed. Mucus spilled out of them, running into the deep crevices in her cheeks. “Verna, ye say? Verna of the miller, might ye be?”

The maidservant nodded slowly, “Aye, dame. If you know of me…then you know of my plight. I have brought something to you. I am in need of assistance, old woman. You will be well rewarded upon completion of this deed. ”

She pulled from her waist a cloth wrapped package. With a swift flick of her wrist, she opened it and a cloth of gold snood tumbled onto the dirty table. “And when we are through today,” she looked expectantly at Dame Marthe, “you shall tell my future. ”

It was more than a se’ennight past Christ’s Mass and Lord Merle’s return to Langumont. One afternoon, shortly after the midday meal, Merle sighed and adjusted himself in his chair.

Allegra looked up, wondering if his wound still pained him. “Husband, may I pour thee more ale? Thy cup is near empty. ” She was seated in the chair next to him, working on her embroidery. The dais on which they sat was near the fire, yet not near enough to be well lit. Merle had had torches and candles on tall stands set about so that his wife did not have to strain her eyes.

“Aye, love, more ale. And mayhap some cheese?”

“Of course, my lord husband. ” Allegra provided him with his wishes as he watched Maris and Dirick play a game of chess.

Allegra didn’t play chess; she found it too daunting to keep in mind all of the pieces and they way they marched across the board—let alone planning one’s moves several steps in advance. But based on the number of pieces collected on each side of the table, their daughter was giving the handsome knight a bit of a challenge in the game.

Just settling back in her chair, Allegra was startled by a quiet voice in her ear. “My lady Allegra. ” Turning, she found Maris’s maidservant, Verna.

“Aye, Verna?”

“You are needed in the kitchen,” Verna whispered, tugging at her mistress’s sleeve.

“I am needed in the kitchen?” she repeated.

As they walked away from Merle, Verna spoke in a humble voice, “Aye, my lady, there is someone that has asked to speak with you. He did not wish Lord Merle to know of it. ”

Fear gripped Allegra’s chest and she felt her heart thumping uncontrollably behind her ribs. She had hoped and prayed that Bon had forgotten his threat, or had given up when she had not responded.

In sooth, she had not had the courage to broach Merle on the subject of Maris’s betrothed, for she could not fathom a solution to the problem. If Maris married as her husband wished, Bon would make good on his threat to expose her true parentage. But Allegra could not allow her daughter to wed with her own half uncle—most especially to a man such as Bon de Savrille.

Nor, did it seem, that she would be able to sway her husband in a decision he had already made. Only this evening had Merle commented that the man he awaited should arrive on the morrow, and the contracts would shortly be signed.

In despair, Allegra recalled the day of her own wedding and the private vow she’d made that her daughter should never marry against her will. In all these years, Allegra had not forgotten Michael, nor had her love for the man she remembered dimmed.

Someday, she vowed, she would be with him again, or may God strike her dead. She had never grown to love Merle as she should. Although she’d been a good wife to him, and served him well, she did not feel the passion and blind love that she still harbored for Lord Michael.

The maid stopped just near the kitchen door, gesturing to the entrance to the bailey. “My lady, the man awaits near the stables. I did not wish to alarm you in Lord Merle’s presence. ”

The wind was cold and Allegra had not pulled a cloak around her. Her dread grew, causing her stomach to churn, and she forced herself to walk across the courtyard, head bent. She shivered and stumbled to the stables, aware that Verna was no longer in her wake.