Merle nodded. “The king is watching Bon de Savrille? I’ve long suspected he might have other allegiances. He was to provide men and to be at my side in Wales. He showed himself for a mere three days, kept to himself, and eventually left his men to return to Breakston. He left word that he had problems at home that called him back. Methinks the man is merely a coward, yet, I wouldn’t be surprised were he to turn up as a supporter of the Welsh uprisings. ”
“With your permission, I won’t leave immediately for Breakston. I intend to be sure he’s in residence before I make the journey, and ’twould do me some good to be nearby if you remember anything else about my father. ”
“Aye, of course—stay as long as you like. Shall I put some work your way to help your tale and keep your mind and body occupied?”
Dirick smiled. “Aye, thank you, my lord. I’ll sit at table with you this evening and be most pleased to make the acquaintance of your daughter. ” Dirick imagined telling Bernard of his meal with the lady who had rejected his suit.
That could be most interesting, and entertaining as well.
Early that morning when she heard that a man had arrived to see her father, Maris made her escape from the keep. Wishing to put off meeting her betrothed, she grabbed two apples and a hunk of cheese and went out to the village. There were several people she should visit, including Thomas the cooper and his wife, and she wanted to gather the last of the bruisewort leaves from her garden. It was her intention to be scarce for the entire day.
And so it was nearing dusk when she finally returned to the keep. Managing to avoid her father, mother, and probable suit
or, she sneaked up the huge stone steps that led to the women’s quarters above the great hall. Verna was awaiting Maris in the chamber, ready to help her dress for dinner.
“’Tis late, my lady. My lord will soon be voicing his displeasure if you miss a third evening meal,” Verna commented as she helped Maris out of her work tunic.
“Aye. ” Maris’s teeth chattered as she stood in the chill room clothed only in her shift. “I couldn’t find a reason to miss this meal as I have the last two. Nay, I think the gold bliaut, Verna. ”
Her maid dutifully pulled the gold colored undertunic from her lady’s wardrobe. It was shot through with gilt thread, making the tight fitting garment look like the ocean under a sunny sky. Verna laced it tightly up the sides, then turned back to the trunks.
“The green tunic, my lady?” she asked, pulling out an overgarment trimmed with gold thread.
“Aye. ” Maris would dress her finest for a man she should detest who sat below, waiting to slather all over her hand and her lands. Despite her curiosity, knowing that Verna would certainly have heard the gossip about the man whom her father had chosen for her, Maris deigned to ask anything about him.
She would learn aught soon enough.
Verna pulled the long, loose fitting tunic over Maris’s head. There were no sides to the tunic, merely a hole for her head with a deep neckline to show off the golden bliaut underneath. A gold girdle wrought in the shape of loose flowers and leaves cinched the tunic at her waist.
Maris was strangely nervous at the thought of descending the stairs to dinner. She knew that her father’s mind had been made up, and the man she was to marry awaited her below. As much as she might abhor the idea of marriage, Maris had come to realize that it was for the good of Langumont that she must wed …and that it would do her little benefit to anger her father by rebuffing her intended betrothed.
There was no time to redo her hair, so Verna left it in the heavy plait that hung down her back. Flyaway wisps of rich, chestnut brown had sprung from the braid, framing her face. Verna tucked them under the sheer, gold shot wimple that was draped over her mistress’s head and neck. A thin-filigreed headdress held the wimple in place, and Maris was dressed for dinner.
She inched her way along the hall and toward the steps that would bring her to her father’s table for dinner. Reluctantly, she started down the stairs, enjoying her vantage point of the hall.
The familiar sounds of preparation for the evening meal drifted up to her. Serfs bustled about, men-at-arms pulled the long trestle tables together and settled benches along each one. Female serfs stood aside, ready with trenchers and crudely carved wooden cups to place on the tables. The three dogs that were allowed in the hall slept next to the fire, knowing that their scraps would come much later. Maris allowed those three hounds in the hall only because they were her father’s favorite hunting dogs—or had been before one was blinded, one lost a leg, and the third got so old he couldn’t run any longer.
A group of men-at-arms sat in front of the blazing fire. Some were engrossed in games of chess or chance and others were drinking ale and sharing jests. Still others were flirting with the female serfs hoping to find one to share their bed, no doubt.
Maris’s feet brought her closer to the bottom of the stairs—directly across the room from her father’s table. She wove her way carefully between the tables, serfs, and men-at-arms toward the dais. As soon as the dais came into full view, she saw that her father was engrossed in conversation with a man who was undoubtedly her unwanted suitor.
Her stomach gave a little lurch of disappointment. It had to be the man Papa was expecting. Her betrothed. Praise God, at least he seemed close to her in age, and he had all of his hair. If she were truly fortunate, he’d be in possession of a full set of teeth as well. And even sitting next to her broad-shouldered father, the guest was solid and imposing.
Maris straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and drew a deep, steadying breath. She had no choice in the matter, so ’twas best that she begin this on her own terms: strong and with confidence.
Just then, the dark-haired man looked up, directly at her, and in that horrible instant, she recognized him.
The man who’d nearly run her down last night.
From his seat at the high table, Dirick was struggling with the same shock and chagrin that was reflected in the woman’s face—albeit briefly. For, no sooner had their eyes met than the surprise disappeared from her expression.
Thus, he attempted to talk himself out of it—perhaps he’d imagined the flash of recognition there. There was the faulty light in the hall, and the distance…surely she wasn’t the woman from last night. The one whom he’d nearly trampled, insulted and then propositioned?
He’d lost track of what he’d been saying to Lord Merle and as she made her way closer to the dais, he found it impossible to look away. Whether it was because of the young woman’s beauty—which was undeniable, even from half across the hall—or because it was as if an impending doom was coming his way like a rolling black storm, Dirick wasn’t certain.
She seemed to sparkle gold: from the gossamer veil on her head to the long, wrist length sleeves of her gown. As she drew closer, he scrutinized her closely—absentmindedly rejoining the conversation with Merle as he held onto the rapidly disintegrating hope that he was mistaken. But, no, the nearer she came the clearer his error was. A warm flush began to settle over Dirick’s features as he recalled the rude and angry words he’d shouted at her the night before. The fact that he’d nearly flattened her.
His next question—who was she?—was soon answered, but not before he privately agonized over whether he’d insulted his lord’s wife, his mistress, or—God help him—the daughter, Maris.