A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden 3)

Christ’s teeth, she’d been walking in the shadows of the narrow throughway, and it was only by luck that a silver of moonbeam had caught at something metallic in her hair, glinting and alerting him to the movement.

Looking down, he noted her dirt streaked face and sagging hair. In the bright moonlight, he could see her eyes flashing at him—rather like his mother’s cats when they were angry: spitting and hissing. Yet, despite her bedraggled appearance, the woman had an air of affront that did not befit a simple peasant wench.

A comely one, she would be, however, if she were cleaned up a bit, he realized suddenly, allowing his gaze to do a leisurely sweep over her from head to toe. Mayhap that was just what he needed after these days’ journey ahorse…and mayhap that was why she walked on the road alone so late at night.

Before he could voice his thoughts, she snapped back at him. “It was no fault of mine!” she told him coldly. “I didn’t leap into your pathway; you came barreling upon mine with nary a care for anyone else who might be along the way. If you do not open your eyes while riding, sir knight, when in battle, you may find yourself in a more telling situation than nearly trampling a woman!”

Annoyance flashed through him at her scornful response, and he jerked Nick back around, glaring right down into her face. To his surprise, she didn’t back away, but instead glared back. Her furious eyes were an incongruity in a dirty face.

“I can think of much better things to do with a woman than trample her,” he replied, wheeling Nick in front of her to cut off her escape. Only whores walked the streets of a village at night, and despite her dirt-streaked cheeks, she was rather appealing—if one could overlook the haughtiness in her words. “Mayhap you would like to display your own horsemanship if you do not appreciate mine. ” His voice gentled and deepened just enough to let it be clear he had something in particular she might care to ride…and it wasn’t Nick.

The wench drew her breath in sharply, obviously understanding his meaning all too well, and confirming his suspicion that she was no innocent. “Sir, you overspeak yourself,” she told him, backing away.

Dirick lunged from his saddle, half-heartedly snatching at her arm. But she was too quick and dodged into the shadows. He sat back and, after a moment, laughed at himself. ’Twas just as well. He had no time to waste with whores, and the very accommodating Lady Artemis had been most hospitable in a private alcove before he left London. His need could wait.

He gathered up Nick’s reins and urged his horse on down the street toward the center of the village. He expected to find an inn where he could sleep this night, and then present himself to Lord Merle Lareux on the morrow.

Dirick nodded to himself as he looked about. The streets of Langumont were lit only by the bright moon and stars, but clearly showed well built houses and a relatively clean center square. When he’d passed some men at arms at the edge of the village, they’d taken notice of him—a single rider on a good mount—but did not attempt to stop him from entering the town. Although they were sharp eyed enough to notice a stranger, they did not deem a single knight to be a threat.

It was true. . . Dirick beheld was only a threat to those who slayed his father.

Maris ran the last bit to the portcullis of the bailey, her long braid bouncing along her shoulder as she hurried into the safety of the keep.

That man was a mule’s behind! And a very large one at that.

Had he dared lay a hand on her, she would have called the guards down on him so quickly, he wouldn’t know what happened.

Suddenly, now that she was safely inside the bailey and able to think more clearly, a wave of unease settled over her. She’d only been challenged because she looked like a wench—in a simple cloak, without a wimple, her face dirty and her hair straggling about, trudging the village streets at night…indeed, what else was a man to think?

He’d thought exactly what anyone would have thought: only whores walk the streets at night.

She wondered who he was. Dressed so richly, riding a horse of that sort…surely he wasn’t a guest of her father’s. Nay, of course not. He would have approached the keep, rather than ride through the village. And—Maris turned to look back at the lowered portcullis—no one approached at this time of night, so he must be seeking a place at the inn.

Whoever he was, she doubted she’d see him again. And even if she did, the man would never recognize her as the weary, bedraggled woman on the road.

Maris let herself into the great hall and was surprised to find her father seated in his chair by a blazing fire. The serf who tended the fire during the night slept curled on his pallet in the corner, near enough to tell if the flames lowered.

“Papa!” she exclaimed softly, aware of the pallets for the men-at-arms that lay just on the other side of a screen of blankets. “What are you doing, still awake? You should be resting,” she lectured. Nevertheless, she was relieved and delighted to see him.

“Daughter,” he looked up from a chessboard. “I’d begun to worry about you, but Father Abraham’s servant sent to me that the birthing was difficult. ”

Maris lowered herself into her mother’s chair and gratefully took the chunk of bread her father offered her. “Aye—’twas two babes. Two boys. They are well and squalling, and overjoyed to be in this world. ”

“’Tis good work you do, Maris. You are good to the people here, and I’m proud of you. ”

She felt herself swell with pride at her father’s words, and tears glinted at the corners of her eyes when she saw the smile on his face. “Thank you Papa. You know that I love L

angumont, and its people, above all—save you, of course. ”

Merle shifted in his heavy chair. “Maris, I nearly didn’t live to see you again,” he said, returning his gaze to her. “I was sorely injured, and were it not for the grace of God and the assistance of another man, I should have been left on the field to die. ’Tis why my return was so delayed. ”

“But Papa, why did you not send word? I would have come—”

He smiled, patting her hand. “I know you would have, daughter, and I couldn’t have had a better one to nurse me back to health than you. I didn’t send word because I didn’t wish to worry your mother. ” He sighed and released her hand to stroke his beard. “As I lay there, determined to live, I realized that had I perished, I should have left you and your mother alone and unprotected. And Langumont unprotected. ”

Unease crept over her. What was he trying to say “We wouldn’t be unprotected, Papa. Sir Raymond is here, and…. ” She trailed off and folded her hands in her lap, looking at herb stained skin and scratched fingers. The hands of a maidservant, not a great lady.

“’Tis time you were wed, Maris,” he told her quietly, but with a firmness in his voice that brooked no disobedience.