A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden 3)

At that moment, a movement near the stairwell caught his eye, and Lady Allegra walked into view. As always, his body responded to the mere sight of her and he shifted languorously in Merle’s chair. Jesù, but the woman had him by the stones.

He’d never forgotten her over the years, for she’d warmed his bed and tended to his needs better than any whore, noblewoman, or even his own wife. He supposed he loved her, for even now, after eighteen years, he could not get enough of her body. Just this morrow, they’d met in the far corner of the stables as Victor and Maris saddled their mounts for a ride…and Michael had had a pleasant ride of his own.

He wasn’t able to keep the self satisfied smirk from his lips now, but hid it behind the goblet of ale.

Since their arrival at Langumont, he’d not had any of the raging aches in his head, and that, too, was cause for satisfaction. Those aches frightened him with their intensity, and with the black memories and images that came with them. He sought ways to expel the fury that clawed inside him when those spells incapacitated him, but it was becoming more and more difficult to do so as time passed.

Michael pushed such minor nuisances away as he saw Allegra passing nearby. He wanted her again. “My lady,” he called, raising his goblet, “come you and serve me. ”

It was an interesting group that was assembled at the high table that evening: an evening of utmost importance to all involved.

Lady Allegra’s face, to anyone who passed even the most cursory glance over her, was drawn and tight. Her eyes were ringed with the purple of sleepless nights, and her usually neat coiffure was loose, leaving several straggling strands of hair about her face.

Lord Michael, seated next to Allegra, looked obsessively pleased with himself. He was particularly attentive to the woman beside him—but she seemed oblivious to everything and spent most of the meal staring into nothing with a haunted look in her eyes.

Sir Victor could barely keep his burning gaze from his soon to be betrothed. There was a proprietary air of complacency about him as well.

Maris was subdued. She concentrated on her meal, accepting the choice tidbits of capon and goose from Victor without comment.

When the meal was nearly finished—just before the final, sweet course was brought from the kitchens—Lord Merle stood, stepping carefully to stand behind the long bench on which he and his guests were seated. He called for attention, although gossip had spread throughout the keep and all had been waiting for the announcement of their lady’s betrothal.

“Two days hence,” he began jovially, with a full cup of ale in his hand, “we shall celebrate a most auspicious event. It has taken many years for this decision to be made, and tonight I wish to make known to you the betrothed husband of my daughter, Maris of Langumont. ”

Beaming behind his silver beard, Merle helped his daughter to her feet as the room erupted in loud cheers—at the prospect of a day of celebration as much as the announcement of a wedding.

“Two days hence,” he repeated, smiling down at his daughter—who managed a tremulous curving of the lips in response, “the castellans from Cleonis, Firmain, Shawdon, Edena, and Damona, shall arrive to once again pledge their fealty to me, and to my heir, Lady Maris. At that time, they shall also witness the betrothal covenant of my daughter to Lord Victor d’Arcy of Gladwythe. ”

The room erupted with joy, and Lady Allegra slid to the floor in a dead faint.

CHAPTER TEN

Dirick was seated comfortably in the corner of Breakston Hall that was the darkest and most unobtrusive, but close enough to the roaring fire that warmth emanated to his very toes. It was after the evening meal—if one could call the fare that had been set before him food—and there were fewer people than usual in the hall.

His mail hauberk, one that was of such quality that it would certainly be remarked upon as to how an itinerant mercenary knight had come to own it, had one taken a close look at it, lay draped over his crossed knees. He sat in rushes that were so old that he dared not contemplate what might be living among them, polishing the mail, and silently observing the lord of the hall.

There wasn’t much to observe.

Dirick had been at Breakston for nearly three days, and he’d come to the conclusion that de Savrille and his comrade Edwin Baegot were merely sloppy, stupid men who had no business calling themselves knights, let alone land-owning lords.

There was, he intended to remind his sovereign, no law against having a lack of common sense…and although Henry Plantagenet had good reason to feel slighted that Bon had not graced his presence, Dirick intended to inform the king that it was no great insult. In fact, he planned to leave on the morrow to make a full report to his king, along with the recommendation that Bon de Savrille be disseissened from Breakston. There could not be another fief in all of Henry’s kingdom that was in such disrepair.

And then, God willing, Dirick would be free to follow the lead on the other task he’d set himself to.

“My lord, Berkle has returned. He has news of great import,” proclaimed Sir Robert as he burst into the hall.

Even from his shadowy corner, Dirick could see Bon’s head snap up from his ever-present goblet of ale. “Send him in immediately,” was the reply.

Curiosity and instinct had Dirick melting into the shadows, attempting to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.

Moments later, a tall, thin man dressed in a heavy black cloak was ushered into the hall. He hurried over to Bon and Edwin, and muttered something that, try though he might, Dirick could not understand. He caught the words “betrothal” and “two days hence” before Bon erupted from his huge chair with a roar.

“The bitch!” he snarled. “How dare that cock licking whore ignore me!” He flung the tankard of ale across the chamber. It splattered all over before it hit the stone wall with a loud clang. “I will have her! I will have her if—”

Bon suddenly stilled as if he realized there were other ears in the room. He glanced over his shoulder at Dirick.

But Dirick had prepared himself for such an eventuality. He was propped in a

far corner, head back against the wall, jaw relaxed…certain that even Bon could hear the snores that rose from an obviously drunken man-at-arms.