Stepping hesitantly inside, she breathed a sigh at the inherent warmth from the building filled with whuffling horses. The stable was dark, but a shadowy figure stood near the rear.
“What do you wish?” she asked in a quivery voice.
“My Lady Allegra,” a slight man stepped forward so that she could make out the barest of his features. “I bring you a token from my master. ” He reached out, and she stepped back in alarm. He was, however, too quick for her reaction, and his fingers closed around her hand. Something heavy was pressed into her palm, then he closed her fingers tightly around it. Metal pressed into her tender palm and Allegra cried out at the pain.
The man laughed and leaned forward. “My master insists that if you do not heed his warning, you will be in much more pain. Good eve, my lady. ” He pushed roughly past her and suddenly she was alone.
Allegra stumbled out of the dim stable moments later, still clutching the heavy metal object. The light of the moon led her through ankle deep snow to the chapel. Leaning on the heavy door, she nearly fell into the haven.
Candles flickered along the altar and at each corner of the chapel. Allegra slowly unfurled her clenched fingers. Even in the varying light, she was able to make out the markings on the heavy metal brooch. De Savrille.
If she’d had any doubt that Bon still intended to marry her daughter, that doubt was now gone.
The next day was unusually fair for January. The sun glared high in the sky, and the serfs and men-at-arms disdained cloaks and gloves alike as they went about their business.
Merle was in the bailey watching his men practice their swordplay when the visitors arrived. Dirick, who had just put his own sword down, looked up curiously as Gustave approached.
“My lord,” announced the seneschal, “the Lords d’Arcy have identified themselves at the portcullis. I shall show them to the great hall, and have them take their ease, but you wished to be informed upon their arrival. ”
“Thank you, Gustave. Dirick, do you come with?”
“I’m certain you have much to discuss that does not concern me. Surely I can occupy myself until the evening meal so that I don’t interrupt your business. ” Dirick wiped an arm across the sweat that trickled down his forehead, brushing his hair back in one slick motion.
“Nay, nay,” Merle said heartily—and so firmly that Dirick did not argue, “Come with me and meet my dear friend and his son. At the least, they shall have news, for they come from south of London, and will bring the latest from there. ”
Merle led the way to the huge entrance of the keep, beckoning for Dirick to follow. Resigned, he pulled on his tunic and followed, wondering why Merle was so insistent that he meet his guests.
Inside the hall, Dirick sheathed his sword and rested it on one of the heavy oaken benches that lined a trestle table. Merle had already greeted the two men that were settled on stools in front of a blazing fire. Dirick approached, scrutinizing the Lords d’Arcy.
The elder—presumably the father—was comfortably sprawled on a three legged stool on which he sat tilted so far that his back rested against a nearby table. Pale, wheat colored hair hung in a cap just to his ears, cut straight across his forehead, and looking like a silvered helm. Pale blue eyes darted quickly to Dirick as he approached, then to Merle, then back to Dirick.
The younger visitor was definitely related to the elder: he had the same pale blue eyes that were colorless as ice, and thin wheat colored hair hung raggedly to his shoulders. He was a fairly large man—easily as tall as Dirick—with a tanned, square face and full lips.
As Dirick extended his hand to the father, he felt the gaze of the younger d’Arcy boring into him. An unaccountable sense of mislike swept over him and in a bald moment of self-recognition, Dirick understood why.
This man was to have Maris.
“Sir Dirick de Arlande, meet Lord Michael d’Arcy of Gladwythe and his son, Sir Victor. ”
Dirick clasped the proffered wrist of Michael d’Arcy, feeling a renewed trickle of unease at the strange light in his pale eyes. Had the man a fever, or was he merely tired from travel?
Then he turned to greet the son, hiding his reluctance and sudden dislike. “Sir Victor,” he said, taking his time to observe the other man while he tried to place the familiar name.
“Sir Dirick de Arlande,” mused Lord Michael, running a finger slowly over his full lower lip. “I do not believe I have heard mention of you at court. ”
“Nay,” Dirick’s lips thinned in a cool smile, “’tis not likely, as I am lately come from Paris, and have not spent time in the court of your Plantagenet. ” His words carried the authentic French accent he’d become accustomed to while serving the queen in Aquitaine. He was determined not to divulge his true relationship with the king and queen.
Merle stepped in. “Sir Dirick has pleaded succor during his journey through England. I have kept him quite busy at Langumont for the past fortnight. ”
Michael drank from a warmed goblet of wine, then, daintily wiping his lips and the tips of his fingers, glanced around the hall. “And where might the fair Lady Maris be? I am keen to meet her. As, I am certain, is Victor. ”
Dirick accepted, and acknowledged, the little tic of annoyance at the reminder of the impending betrothal—then ruthlessly dismissed it. Why should he waste any thought or concern that the man was to wed Maris of Langumon
t?
The lady was not hard on the eyes—and quite delicious on the lips—but Dirick had no further interest in her, even if he wished to wed. Aye, she was a fair chess player and quick of wit, but it was of no difference to Dirick. He had a task to complete, for both his king and his father—and he’d wasted more than enough time here at Langumont.
Just then, Merle called across the room, “Allegra, wife, come attend our guests!”