"A Whisper of Rosemary" - читать интересную книгу автора (Глисон Колин)

~ Part I ~

Chapter One

Eighteen Years Later

Langumont Keep

“Lady Allegra, a man has arrived below-stairs and wishes to speak with you.”

Maris looked up from the embroidery on which she had been trying to concentrate and eagerly dropped it to the table in front of her. “I’ll attend to the visitor, Mama. I’ve enough of needles and thread for the day.”

She rose, glancing automatically out the narrow window for a sign of approaching riders. There was naught on the horizon but snow-covered hills and sparse trees.

Her mother, Allegra, Lady of Langumont, gave her a vague smile and made no move to stir. “And if you continue to seize every opportunity to put your sewing aside, how will you finish your father’s surcoat by Christ’s Mass?”

“I’ll finish it in time, Mama,” Maris told her. And she would, too, for it was almost as if her father couldn’t return home in time for the celebrations unless she did. Yet, Maris glanced at the half-finished surcoat and wished she hadn’t chosen to embark on such a complicated project.

“Very well,” Allegra told her. “Greet our visitor in my stead and do what you can for him.”

It was the difference between she and her mother, Maris reflected as she hurried down the curving stone staircase. She moved with such alacrity that the tapestries billowed against the walls and wisps of her hair fluttered against her cheeks. Her mother had always preferred to wait for what would come, whilst Maris rode eagerly to meet trouble—or anything else of interest.

In the absence of Lord Merle, her father, Maris managed the fief, with the help of Langumont’s steward. Allegra was content to stitch on the many tapestries that decorated the walls, or to manage the sewing ladies. Mayhap, if roused, she would make selections of fabrics, or choose meats for the evening meals, but she did not bestir herself with managing the estate.

Such was gladly left to her enthusiastic daughter, the only child of Allegra and Merle, and the sole heiress to Langumont’s vast holdings. It was only right that a woman who was heir to such large holdings must clearly understand the management of them—from every home of each villein and tradesman, to which fields belonged to the overlord, and which were left to the villagers. She knew every inch of every acre of forest as well, and rode out with her father as often as he allowed.

When she was near the bottom of the stairs, Maris took a moment to adjust her headdress and wimple. The Lady of Langumont might be busy, but she never appeared rushed.

At this time of the day, mid-afternoon, when the winter sun sunk low to the trees, the hall was empty of men-at-arms and bustling with serfs preparing for the evening meal. A lone, stationary man dressed in fine clothing stood near the stone fireplace that stretched nearly the length of one wall. He appeared to be surveying the room, and when Maris came into his view, he turned to look at her.

She approached him with regal bearing. “I am Lady Maris Lareux. You are well come to Langumont Keep.”

He was not overly tall, but taller than she, and his small, sharp black eyes scored over her as if snatching in every detail in a large gulp. More of an age with Allegra than Maris, the man was mayhap one and a half score.

He was not unpleasing to look upon, with his gleaming black hair, fashionable moustache and neatly trimmed beard, and at first, he appeared neat and well dressed. Yet as Maris returned his bold gaze with one of her own, she noted the splotch of a stain on the midriff of his tunic and the frayed hem of the cross-garters on his left leg.

“I am Bon de Savrille, my lady. I had not expected...I was led to believe that the Lady of Langumont was called Allegra.”

“Lady Allegra is my mother,” Maris told him. “She has asked that I greet our guests and tend to their needs as she is otherwise occupied. May I offer you aught to eat or drink? If you have a message for my mother, I would be pleased to relay it to her.”

“Nay,” he returned, his gaze sweeping her again so that she felt the urge to look down and make certain the laces were tied at her bliaut’s bosom. “Nay, ’tis not she to whom I wish to speak.”

“But you did request to see the Lady of Langumont,” Maris pressed. “Do you bear a message of some sort? From my father?” A sudden fear seized her middle.

“Nay. I am merely in need of a pallet for the night, as I am traveling to my home. I asked only for Lady Allegra, as her name was familiar to me. I knew her once long ago, and had heard that she was lady here.” He smiled, and though he likely meant it to be a warm one, Maris thought it carried the greasiness of an undercooked hare.

The man was odd, but she did not fear him. Nay, she had no need to fear him, or any other man while in Langumont. At the slightest crook of her little finger, any number of men-at-arms would rush to her assistance or protection.

This single man who, even if he were armed could be wearing only a dagger or eating knife, posed no threat to her. Still. His expression caused Maris to step away, grateful for something to do other than to allow the man to rake her up and down with his eyes.

The look there was a mixture of complacence, interest, and cunning, and not for the first time did Maris wish she had Good Venny’s seventh sense for understanding people.

“You may have a seat at any of the tables, and there are pallets in the room below-stairs. If there is anything else you wish, please send for Ralf.”

Maris made a move to go, but the man stopped her. “My lady, there is one last thing. If you would give this to your lady mother, mayhap she will remember me.” She saw that he was working a tight ring from a middle finger that resembled a sausage more than an appendage.

At last it slipped free, and he dropped the heavy, warm gold into her hand. Maris closed her fingers around it. “I’ll give it to her and return with her message.”

“Indeed. And many thanks to you for your hospitality.” His gaze transferred from her to sweep the room, as if taking in its expansiveness and accoutrements.

Glad to be released from what had to be the oddest conversation she’d had since the daft miller Brander had passed on, Maris nodded and gave a brief bow before sweeping from the hall. Ralf would tend to Bon de Savrille if he had any further needs. She would take the ring to Allegra and see what her mother remembered of this bizarre man.

As Maris entered the room, she offered the heavy gold ring to her mother, saying, “Our visitor is named Bon de Savrille, and he sends this to you.”

To Maris’s shock, Allegra’s face drained of color. Her eyes grew round and her body stiffened. With fingers that shook, she took the ring from Maris’s hand, closing her fingers around it as if to imprison it.

“Mama, what is it? Shall I order him thrown out?” A wave of strength and protectiveness surged from Maris’s middle. If the man sought to hurt Allegra, or to threaten her in some way, he would be swiftly dealt with.

“Nay. Nay, my sweetling. ’Tis naught. I merely felt a bit light of head for the moment.” Allegra’s smile was a bit wobbly.

“But Mama—”

“Nay.” Allegra’s voice, rarely this harsh and strong, stopped the words from her daughter’s mouth. “’Tis naught, Maris. I am merely weary and wish to rest. You may leave me. Do you not give that man any further message or attention. I bid you leave him be. He is no one.”

As Maris left the chamber, Allegra’s heart was ramming so hard in her throat that she thought it might choke her. Her hands had become cold, and they were stiff with the chilling fear that filled her. She wanted naught more than to stay in this sunlit solar, to ignore the man from her past.

His arrival could mean nothing good.

But she knew she must speak with Bon. His summons had been implicit when he gave Maris the signet ring to show Allegra. She must find out why he’d reappeared after so many years, and what he wanted from her. And so she descended the stairs to the great hall, knowing he’d be waiting for her to appear.

Knowing that she’d come to him.

She wasn’t mistaken, for he was sitting on a stool near one of the smaller fireplaces, watching her from across the vast chamber. Ignoring him, Allegra sent Maris on an errand to the kitchen. She knew that her headstrong and directive daughter would be occupied for some time therein, for one of the cook’s children had taken ill. Before moving in the direction of her visitor, Allegra gave several more orders that would take most of the serfs, as well as the steward and the few men-at-arms from the hall as well. She wanted as few witnesses as possible.

Then, with great trepidation, she made her way to where he sat, taking care to appear that she merely wandered there by happenstance.

“What a lovely daughter you have,” were Bon’s first words as Allegra approached. He stood and gave a brief, mocking bow.

“I thought—’twas thought you were dead.” Allegra hated that her voice came out weak and thready. She sank onto the stool he’d just vacated, her knees trembling violently.

“I’ve come back to life, so it seems.” His dark eyes taunted her.

Allegra forced a smile over her stiff features. “You are well come to the home of Lord Lareux and myself.”

A soft, cruel laugh rumbled from deep in his throat. “Aye, Allegra, I am so well come that you did not greet your brother with open arms in view of your serfs and your daughter. In fact, you sent them on their way before you deigned to acknowledge me. Are you so certain I am well come?”

“Half-brother,” she reminded him, summoning a bit of spirit.

“Aye.” His laughter stopped abruptly. “I am indeed the son of a lord and his lady—unlike my sister, who was spawned by a whore.”

Allegra flinched and fought to keep her voice steady and out of earshot of the single serf across the room as she demanded, “Why are you here? What do you want?”

“Your daughter is lovely. Amazingly lovely,” he said, his attention boring into the orange flames next to them as he spoke with studied casualness. “’Tis hard to believe she is the daughter of a gruff and homely man as Merle Lareux.”

Darkness closed in on Allegra’s vision and she drew in a deep breath. His last words floated between them, threatening and knowing. Her cold hands fluttered in her lap, digging into the material of her gown, twisting and turning, hiding…. “Aye,” she whispered. Could he know?

“Or is she?”

Allegra’s insides collapsed into a mass of writhing, churning nausea. “What do you say?” she managed, despite the fact that the world was closing in on her.

Bon stepped back from her, turning to look across the empty hall. The cold confidence in his movements and the proprietary sweep of his gaze made Allegra feel even more ill. “Beyond is the beautiful maiden Maris of Langumont, heiress to the vast lands of Merle Lareux. She must be near a ripe age to wed…it has been nearly eighteen years, has it not?” He turned slowly to look at Allegra. “’Twould be a shame if the truth were found out, aye? Were the great Lord of Langumont to learn that the daughter he adores is not of his—”

“Enough,” Allegra cried softly, still taking care that none of the bustling serfs should see that aught was amiss. “Do you not speak such lies in my home.”

“Lies?” Bon rumbled from deep in his throat. “Aye. Lies that have such truth to them that the walls of Langumont Keep could come crumbling down about you.” His laughter was bitter. He looked at her calmly, seeming to enjoy the fear that ate into her. “Lady sister, I have returned—from the dead, if you wish—for my rightful inheritance.”

The numbness of fear was so great that Allegra did not comprehend him. “What?”

“Cleonis, Firmain…and now, thanks to your marriage to Merle Lareux—from which there is, quite remarkably, only a single issue in the form of your lovely daughter—I shall also be the heir apparent to Langumont, Edena and Damona.” His eyes took on a bright gleam. “I am the rightful heir to Father’s lands, Allegra, and I’ll have them.”

“Nay.” She found her voice at last. “Father disowned you, and you disappeared when he wed with Mother. My mother.” Though she knew little of the ways lands were enfeoffed and distributed, she knew enough that a woman could inherit should her father or the king allow it. Merle had arranged it for Maris, his only daughter. And Allegra knew that her father had done the same for her. That Bon had no claim to the lands she’d brought to her marriage to Merle.

“Nay,” Bon said, a smile stretching his beard and moustache. “I cannot claim Cleonis as a son. But as a husband….”

“A husband?” she breathed, the fear stifling her as the meaning of his words penetrated. He would claim Maris as his wife? His own niece?

He stood back, that smile turning colder and more calculating. “’Twould be a shame for Merle Lareux to learn the truth of his daughter…and the perfidy of his wife. However, that unpleasantness could be avoided were the beautiful heiress of Langumont entrusted to the right husband.”

“Nay. Never.” Allegra stood, turning away in a rush of fear and anger. Her hands trembled violently. “I will never give Maris to a dog such as you.”

His voice remained low and cold, drawing her to look back at him. “In time, you will come to see the advantage of my offer. I wed Maris, inherit Langumont and Cleonis, and you remain the healthy wife of Merle Lareux. If not…ach…I fear there will be a convent in your future. Or worse.”

“Never,” she repeated.

Bon’s eyes were sharp as they settled on her, raking over her with obvious disgust. “This is not the last you will hear from me.”

Without another word, Bon turned and strode from the hall.

Allegra eased herself slowly back onto the stool, her head light. The world was in a darkening spiral.

What could she do?

Bone-weary, dirty, and smelling of ripe horse, Dirick of Derkland hailed the guardsmen above the heavy portcullis of the Tower of London. At last.

Nick’s sure hooves clattered on the polished wood as they continued through the entrance into the bailey of King Henry the Plantagenet’s current residence. It had been a brutal two days’ ride in snow and sleet from the funeral of Dirick’s father at Derkland Keep, and he wished only to strip off his half-frozen, sweat-soaked sherte and chausses and slip into a steaming bath that smelled of some pleasing spice or other.

With one of the king’s maids attending him, of course.

Mayhap that, at least, would turn his mind from the grief and anger that had gnawed his middle this se’ennight past.

Fortunately, Dirick had visited Henry uncountable times and Nick knew the whereabouts of the stable without prompting. Dirick’s eyelids sagged, as did his shoulders, and when he slid to the ground, planting his boots in the snow, his knees buckled from weariness. One of the marshals took Nick’s reins, and Dirick stumbled gratefully toward the main keep where he would find food and warmth. The bath and the woman, he amended internally, could wait for the morrow.

He would search out a pallet on the floor in the below-stairs chamber for the men, and he would sleep. Sleep. He prayed he was too tired to dream, for the nightmare of what had befallen his father would surely haunt him.

Dirick managed the steps into the hall, but had barely begun his search for a spot at the long trestle tables when he was hailed from behind.

“Dirick! You are here.”

He turned toward the familiar voice. “Gavin. Aye, only just moments ago. I am in search of food and a pallet,” he responded, grasping the forearm of his friend in greeting.

Lord Gavin of Mal Verne was shaking his head, his stark features more sharp than usual. “I fear your rest must needs wait. Henry demands you attend him immediately.”

Dirick cursed, flexing his frozen fingers. “How can he know I am arrived? I have only just left the stable. I didn’t even take the time to unsaddle Nick myself.”

“We were in his private chamber when the news came you’d crossed the drawbridge. He bade me send you to him immediately, before you found yourself in the company of one lady or another.” A faint quirk of his mouth gave the words a humorous edge, but it slipped away at his next words. “I was aggrieved to hear of your father’s death. I am sorry that Madelyne and I could not attend the funeral, but the news did not reach us here until ’twas too late.”

“Aye. I learned the news in bare time to travel to Derkland myself,” Dirick replied, falling into reluctant step with Gavin as they left the hall. “I traveled two days with no rest from Kent, and then at the nonce of the funeral’s end, I remounted Nick and rode here with no rest.”

He’d felt more than a bit of guilt, leaving his brother Bernard—who was now Lord of Derkland—to deal with the grief of their mother, but it could not be helped. Joanna, Bernard’s wife, was a kind and gentle soul, and she would take good care of their mother.

“There is, at least, food with the king,” Gavin pointed out as they came to a fork in the passageway. Then he stopped and gave Dirick a wry smile. “Now that I have done my duty, I’ll bid you good eve and wish you luck on finding your pallet sometime before the dawn. I have been with Henry all the day myself—he is filled with the energetic humors all these last days and has kept me since dawn. And Madelyne awaits me.”

“Bid her well for me. I’ll speak with the king, then, God willing, find that pallet and sleep for two days. ’Tis that, or my knees will give out in his royal presence.” Dirick gave his friend a weak grin, then turned toward Henry’s chamber and strode rapidly down the chill, dark passage. The sooner he should learn of the king’s needs, the sooner Dirick could see to his own.

’Twas not as if his own requirements were great.

As the youngest son of Harold of Derkland, Dirick had neither lands nor an affinity for the Church—as his two elder brothers did, eldest and middle, respectively. Instead, he had made himself indispensable to the young King of England when he was merely the Count of Angevin and wooing his bride, Eleanor of Aquitaine. Henry had grown to trust and rely upon Dirick, and as he had naught to offer any woman but his company and his body, Dirick had enjoyed his time in Eleanor’s Court of Love whilst managing the variety of tasks Henry set before him.

’Twas just as well that he had not been seated in the hall, he reflected numbly, striding along the curving passageway. He was in no good mood to charm the ladies of Eleanor’s court, nor did he wish to offend any of them in his present state.

But to his dismay, when Dirick was shown into Henry’s private solar, his wife, Queen Eleanor attended him also.

“Your majesty.” He bowed first to Henry, pressing his forehead to the king’s outstretched hand, and then swiveled on his bent, aching knee to greet the queen. “My queen, I fear I offend you in my present state.”

“Dirick, you may get off the floor and rid yourself of that sword and cloak,” Henry boomed, standing to look down at him. “’Tis not as though Eleanor doesn’t understand the rudiments of traveling in haste. The woman leaves me in her tracks when we tour Aquitaine. ’Tis only when she is enceinte that she travels at a reasonable pace,”

“Indeed, Sir Dirick,” the queen’s languid tones forgave him, “’twould be unthinkable that you could offend me. Or any of my ladies, for that matter.”

Dirick murmured his thanks and pulled to his feet, smothering a groan from the ache in his knees, and unbuckled the sword from his tunic. Resting it on the floor near the door, he tore the cloak from his shoulders and dropped it atop the scabbard, then turned back to his liege.

“Sit yourself down,” Henry grumped, turning to pace across the room. “Your excessive height offends me—and in truth, you look as though you are ready to fall over.”

Dirick sank onto a stool near the crackling fire and tried to warm his hands. Henry’s sharp eyes surely did not miss the weariness and pain that lined his man’s face, but he said nothing save, “Your father is laid to rest?”

“Aye. He is laid to rest—yet I will not rest until I lay hand and sword upon the man who helped him to an early grave.” Dirick stopped his weary tongue from adding aloud the words that echoed in his mind: with or without your blessing.

“And well you should not, Dirick. I would expect no less from you. A younger son you might be, but bound with honor and determination you ever have been—at the least in my name.” Henry gestured to a wooden platter of cheese and bread. “Eat, man, before you tilt onto the floor, and I will tell you why I have summoned you.”

Eleanor thrust a goblet of ruby wine into his hand, and Dirick took it, mildly surprised that she would serve him. But he was left to reach for his own hunk of bread, and he did, tearing it from the brown loaf, and breaking off a piece of cheese as well. The wine, surely from Eleanor’s own lands of Aquitaine, went smoothly down his throat and warmed his limbs as Henry began to speak in his abrupt fashion.

“As I have heard it, your father Harold was found dead with his horse and one of his men near Derrington. ’Twas no ordinary scene of war or thievery.”

“Aye. On his belly and unshriven,” Dirick spat, heedless of the breadcrumbs that sprayed into his wine. “His throat was slit deep, through to the spine. Someone had arranged it so that his head pulled back, leaving his face to look up at the heavens.” Anger and nausea rolled deep within him, simmering and bubbling from where he’d kept it tucked away for days.

“And his body was arranged thusly with another victim, hand to hand, belly to ground, face to the sky, as well,” Henry continued. His voice had lost its friendly boom and become hard. “’Tis a madman, and your father’s death was the third such instance in two summers.”

Dirick swallowed hard, and the lump of bread stuck in his throat. He gulped wine to soften it and warm his suddenly shivering body again. “More? There are more of these slaughterings?”

“Aye.” Of a sudden, the king looked as weary as Dirick felt. “I have summoned you with such haste because I do not wish there to be a fourth instance. You may fulfill your need for vengeance and mine own desires at the nonce, and with my blessing.”

The realization that he did not have to beg to be released from Henry’s service to find his father’s killer lightened Dirick’s weary shoulders. His prayers had been answered. “Many thanks, my liege. You have granted me the only boon I should ask of you.”

Henry nodded once, as if to agree, and Dirick shoved a hunk of crusty yellow cheese into his mouth. “You will leave on the morrow—or the one following, if you desire a day of rest before setting out on your quest. You have my permission to travel where you wish to run this killer to the ground, but one small task you must first complete.

“I have long suspected my vassal Bon de Savrille, Lord of Breakston by some fool’s decision, of having something to hide from his king. He has not traveled to me in more than a score moons, and he always gives the excuse of aught such as a bad crop, or reavers on the loose, for why he doesn’t come. At the last, ’twas that he’d injured a leg and couldn’t ride the distance. I bid you seek him out and learn what you can of him, and whether he should be trusted. I do not wish him to know you are my man, however, so take care how you present yourself.

“And as you travel to Breakston, you will cross the lands of Langumont. Lord Merle Lareaux of Langumont, as you mayhap are aware, is the one who came upon the scene of your father’s death. You must speak with him.”

Dirick could barely contain his satisfaction and relief at being commanded by his king to do the very thing he’d planned to plead for. “Aye, my lord. And what of the other instances of this slaughtering mad man? Are there others I should speak with as well?”

“I shall have news sent to you at Langumont, as my man Dwain travels to Lederwyth to visit with a merchant who came upon the last scene. Of the first instance…’twas nearly two summers past, and the man who found the victims is dead of the pox. He will be no help to you.”

“Very well, my lord. Now, if you will, as you have provided me with satisfaction for belly and mind, I will beg leave and seek a pallet. It will be a long ride to Langumont and Breakston, and I am weary in both body and spirit.”

Eleanor’s dulcet tones interrupted any response her husband may have intended. “But Christ’s Mass is on the morrow, Dirick. By now the ladies have heard of your return, and they will be sore disappointed to be cheated of your dance and song at the feast.”

“Christ’s Mass?” Dirick shook his head, the weariness rushing over him again with full force. But he was not so fogged that he didn’t recognize her implicit command that he should stay and entertain her ladies. “I did not realize…aye, mayhap I will stay for the feast.” He was rewarded with a warm smile from the beautiful queen, and he considered for not the first time the challenge Henry must have, managing such a powerful woman as his wife.

It was a blessing Dirick would never have that cross to bear.

He staged a brief bow. “May I beg your leave, your majesties?”

“Aye, Dirick, only one more thing.” Something akin to grief brushed the king’s ruddy face, and Dirick recognized pain in his liege’s eyes. “You must know I am greatly grieved at your father’s passing. He was a good man, and a loyal friend and advisor. I will do whatever I can to help you bring his killer to justice.”