His mind wandered back to the evening he’d spent wandering the battlements of his beloved Langumont…and the conversation he’d exchanged with Dirick Derkland. Harold must have been very proud of his son, Merle thought to himself.
Merle thought for a long time, all that day and for the remainder of the evening. He watched with a hawk’s eye the others at table with him: his wife and daughter, Michael and Victor d’Arcy.
Maris braved the evening meal as she imagined her father would stand in battle. She was polite, if a little reserved to their guests, solicitous to her mother, who had insisted upon rising from her bed, and warm to her father.
Yet the time to retire did not come too soon for her. She was anxious to be away from Victor’s proprietary gaze, anxious to have time to plan her next strategy. The betrothal ceremony would take place the next afternoon, and at that time, she would truly belong to Victor d’Arcy as completely as if she’d wed him. Maris was realistic enough to know that while she couldn’t stop the betrothal, or change her father’s mind, she might be able to delay it.
Or, if she truly had no other choice, she thought, gnawing at her lower lip as she gathered her skirts to climb over the bench, she would find a way to make peace with Victor.
“Good night, Papa,” she stopped behind her father’s chair at the fireside.
He looked at her with sad, old eyes. “Daughter, I vow, all will be well. Know that I love you above all. ”
Tears skimmed the corners of her eyes: she loved and trusted her father. “Aye, Papa,” she said softly, trying to regain her composure. “I love you. ”
He pulled her nearly onto his lap in a bear hug, making her feel as if she were but three years of age. “I want only the best for you,” he told her yet again. “Believe you this. Good morrow, my daughter. ”
“Good morrow, Papa,” she pressed a kiss to his bristling cheek and swept from the room, dashing back the tears that once again threatened.
In the privacy of her chambers, Maris found Verna strangely jumpy. “Go on,” she told her maid tiredly. “Get you to the man who waits you. ”
“Thank you, milady,” her servant told her, slipping from the room with undue haste.
Maris collapsed on her bed, drawing thick furs up to cover her from head to toe. The fire that had been laid was burning merrily, and the chamber was not cold at all—still, she felt the need to hide from the world.
She must have slept, for suddenly she was being shaken awake.
“Milady,” whispered Verna urgently, shaking her shoulders rather too roughly. “Milady, you must come—Ernest of the hillock has been grievously injured. ”
Maris’s mind cleared of sleep instantly. She nearly leapt from the bed. “Please, Verna, my green overtunic,” she said, fumbling to draw her shoes on.
“Nay, milady, there is no time,” Verna told her, pulling Maris’s blue cloak from a trunk. “Widow Maggie says you must come at once. ”
Maris tied her long hair into a knot and stuffed it into an enveloping scarf. Her servant moved closer to wrap her in the cloak. Quickly, she pulled the basket with her herbs from the nearby trunk and whisked from the room in Verna’s wake.
The keep was fairly silent, and very dark. Even the boy who tended the fire in the Hall was nodding off at his post. Maris did not have the heart to waken him on such a chill, dark night—although upon her return, she’d have a few words with him.
“Come, milady,” Verna urged, reaching
for her arm to pull her through the hall.
Maris did not care for the strength of the other woman’s grip—nor her familiarity—and she shook the tight fingers from her wrist. Her servant scarcely noticed, so quickly was she skirting through the Hall, and then out into the bailey.
At the gates to the portcullis, Maris hailed the guards—who were not, fortunately, following the example of the fire tender—and explained her mission. They waved her on through, misliking her intent to wander through at the darkest part of the night, but following her commands to remain at their post. “You need not rouse a guard for me,” she told them. “I have Verna, and we are going only to Ernest Hillock’s home. ”
Verna, for her part, barely stopped as Maris greeted the guards. “Come, milady,” she urged again. “He is not well. ” She led her mistress through the dark streets of the village, through the center square and to the south side.
“Widow Maggie awaits within,” Verna told her, opening the door to a dark hut and gesturing Maris to go ahead.
Maris stepped incautiously through the doorway and instantly, two strong hands grabbed her. One covered her mouth tightly, smothering her instinctive scream, and the other banded around her arm as she struggled against a forceful grip that dragged her up against a solid body. The cloak fell from her shoulders, leaving her only clothing the light chemise she’d worn in bed.
A man grunted as he felt a well placed kick, and he retaliated with a blow to her face that sent her head snapping aside. The pain stunned her for a moment, and the next thing she knew, a thick cloth was shoved into her mouth, gagging her. She tried to bite at the fingers that pressed it in there, and succeeded in tasting dirty flesh. Before she knew what was happening something rammed her knees from behind, sending her buckling to the ground.
“Take care, ye idiot,” came rough voice. “He wants her alive and well!”
She gasped in pain and fear, struggling weakly now as her hands were bound behind her back with heavy rope. Lying on a cold dirt floor, she was suddenly overcome by violent shivering and a rising swell of nausea. Her cheek throbbed from where she’d been hit and though she twisted and fought, she was held tightly.
“Make haste!” someone whispered.