A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden 3)

She drew herself up, suddenly aware that she stood shrieking like a harpy in the king’s chambers. Her cheeks warmed. “Well said, Sir Dirick,” she lowered her eyes as mortification swept over her. “I have no wish to continue this conversation at any other time,” she muttered to herself.

“I beg your pardon, my lady?” asked Henry, the trace of a smile still lingering.

“It was of no import, my liege,” she said with a small curtsey.

Henry glanced at Dirick, who stood next to him, then turned his regal gaze back onto Maris. “About this charge of treason, my lady. You do realize that the sentence for this crime is hanging?”

She swallowed, refusing to look at the dark haired man who stared at her mockingly. “Your grace, I—I may have misspoke myself and—and may not have fully considered the situation. I withdraw my accusation—for the time being,” she added with spirit, still keeping her gaze averted from Dirick.

The king nodded. “Aye, then. I think that a wise decision. ” He stroked his beard with thick fingers as if deep in thought. “You’ll pledge your fealty to me three days hence, Maris of Langumont. ”

The king might have continued speaking had there not been an urgent knocking upon the chamber door. The sole page left in their presence hurried to answer it, and Henry looked on curiously.

“Your majesty. ” A royal messenger entered and swept toward the king, his bow fluid and elegant.

“Rise, Merren. What brings you in such haste?”

“’Tis terrible news. But mayhap I am interrupting?” The lanky messenger glanced at Maris, giving an expectant pause.

Henry nodded then turned to Maris. “My lady, you may return to your chambers. I will expect to see you at supper this eventide. In fact, you shall find your place as my guest this night. ”

“Thank you, my lord,” she managed to stammer, stunned by his invitation and disappointed that she would not hear what terrible news the messenger brought. Picking up her skirts, she turned, avoiding making any eye contact with Dirick, who now leaned casually against the throne chair. It was not lost on her that she, and not Sir Dirick, had been asked to leave the king’s chambers.

Nervous worry and indignation accompanied her movements as Maris made a curtsey to the king. Nevertheless, she walked unhurriedly to the chamber door, acting for all the world as if she had not conducted herself the complete fool in front of her liege lord.

When Maris felt rather than heard the heavy door close behind her, she released her breath in a forceful whoosh of relief.

“Lady Maris?”

A voice from behind startled Maris. She whirled, embarrassed at being observed in such an informal state. A woman, mayhap a few years older than she, stood near one of the torches that lit the hall. She had an aura of ease and peacefulness about her, and the smile she bestowed on Madelyne was warm and friendly.

“Yes?” Maris recovered and looked imperiously at her. How could the woman know her name? She’d arrived at court less than two hours ago and had gone nowhere but to her chamber. Was she trying to be friendly, or was she looking for gossip to spread among the court?

“I am Lady Madelyne of Mal Verne. My husband, Lord Gavin, is a confidant of the king and I am visiting briefly as lady in waiting to Queen Eleanor. Her highness bade me bring you to her upon your dismissal by the king. ” She gestured toward one of the hallways leading from the entrance to the royal chambers.

“Queen Eleanor?” Somehow, the thought of meeting that great lady was far more imposing than meeting her husband. “What would the queen wish of me?” Maris found herself falling into step alongside the other woman. “I’ve only just arrived at Westminster this day. ”

Madelyne gave a dainty shrug, her gray eyes like luminous moonstones. “I am not privy to her majesty’s intentions, but had I to make a guess, I’d expect she should like to determine if you’ll do in her court. Come, now, she awaits—and her highness is not known for her patience. ”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The harsh wind of April whipped violently, stinging Dirick’s cheeks and nose. He pulled the fur lining of his cloak closer, burying his mouth in its warmth. Merren, the royal messenger, rode just ahead of him, setting the urgent pace.

If he had no need for haste, Dirick would have waited a day or two for the spring weather to change to something more comfortable. He’d still be at court and partaking of a warm, filling meal in the Great Hall. Course upon course of food prepared for the purpose of impressing the king would be served to his court. Jesters and troubadours would take their turn at entertaining the ladies and lords who gathered at the king’s pleasure—including the lately arrived Maris of Langumont.

Even in the frigid winter air, the thought of that woman made his blood boil. . She had more brash than a stallion in heat, and more feminine guile than Queen Eleanor. The manner in which Maris had turned those wide golden brown eyes toward his sovereign and blithely declared Dirick a traitor…and then, mere moments later, simpering that it had been an error…. God’s nails, was the daft woman out to see him hanged or merely thrown in a dungeon for life?

Over the last months since returning from his adventure in Breakston, Dirick had come and gone from the royal court while investigating the murder of his father and the other similar victims. It had been most fortunate that he’d been not only at Westminster, but actually with Henry when news of Maris’s arrival was brought to the royal chamber. Dirick had already apprised his liege of the events that took place at Langumont and at Breakston. The only part he’d declined to share was the description of Maris’s last revenge upon him.

Henry had been in an energetic, jovial humor today and had called for Maris to attend him immediately. To Dirick’s surprise, he’d invited him to stay for the audience. It might have been more prudent for him to have announced his presence immediately, but the perverse woman had such a contrary effect on him that he wanted the advantage of surprise.

She was still the beauty his mind had conjured and conjured again over the past several moons. Even travel weary and worn as she must have been, and dressed in fashions that the court had not seen since King Stephen, Maris of Langumont would have outshone any other lady at court had one been there to see her. Mayhap the exception would be Queen Eleanor…but Maris would indeed cause all to look twice or thrice at her, even in the presence of the queen.

Aye, the woman was beautiful…and spirited…and resourceful. . . and, aye, intelligent—though most men would not consider that an asset. She was also a drain on his patience and overly spirited, as well as tart-tongued and sharp. It occurred to Dirick, just then, how many times he’d privately vowed to strangle Maris of Langumont and he gave a little laugh.

“My lord,” Merren’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Draw near me now and I’ll show you the scene. ”

All thoughts of Maris driven from his mind, Dirick urged Nick abreast of the messenger’s mount. “The bodies are here?”