Pushing his way between two men at arms who were arguing about the most desirable quality in a destrier—its weight or its thirst for blood—Dirick was able to find a place on the third bench from the dais. Hoisting a leg over the crude bench, he nudged at one of the hounds that slept beneath the table, moving the dog so he could take his seat.
Glancing at the high table, he saw Bon sitting in his large, throne like chair. The bearded man sent expectant looks toward the stairs between strains of his conversation with Edwin, who sat at his left. Dirick was surprised to note that Bon seemed to have tidied his appearance. His beard was trimmed for the first time in three days, and the tunic he wore was not despoiled with any stains or tears. Even the man’s dark hair had been subdued, brushed back from his high forehead and leaving wings of gray at his temples.
There was a murmur at the back of the hall, and, the nape of his neck prickling with expectancy, Dirick turned to see Maris descending the stairs. Voices quieted and Bon’s attention snapped to the woman who wended her way between the benches and tables. A tall, fierce looking man with a hooked nose followed in her wake.
The hall seemed to have frozen in time, all conversation dying, as Maris passed through. She did not at all look like a maiden who had been kidnapped from her beloved father, wrapped in a tapestry for a day, dumped into a room of gawking men, and threatened with an unwanted marriage. She looked regal, confident, and incredibly beautiful.
Someone—Dirick assumed that it was the scar faced Agnes—had combed through the length of rich brown hair, coiling a huge mass of it intricately at the back of her head. She wore no wimple, and a great length of it, glinting gold and chestnut in the candlelight, fell from the coil, brushing the backs of her thighs as she walked. The gown she wore, though not as fine as one she might have worn at Langumont, was more than appropriate for this ramshackle hall. The blue of the gown was so deep it shone like the midnight sky, and bright yellow embroidery trailed along the edges of long sleeves that nearly brushed the floor. A girdle encircled her waist and she wore a heavy chain of gold links around her neck.
Dirick took a deep steadying breath. How could she look so beautiful and unconcerned when she was in so much danger? Had she realized by now that he would help her, that she had naught to fear from him?
Maris took her time making her way to the high table where Bon awaited her. The hook nosed man that trod upon the train of her gown was Sensel, the guard appointed to watch over her. She breathed easily, keeping her pace slow as she fought to maintain her composure.
Papa is on his way. Papa is coming. She repeated the chant over and over in her mind.
When she reached the high table, Maris almost lost her nerve. But then, steeling herself, she took the last step and swept into a beautiful curtsey at Bon’s feet. “My lord,” she murmured, looking at the battered boots he wore.
There was a moment of stunned silence, and then she heard a rumbling voice. “And see you, Edwin, the honor my wife pays me. ” Bon stepped down from the dais, taking Maris’s hand and raising her to her full height. She modestly kept her eyes downcast until he said, “My lady, ’tis I who am honored at your presence. Come you and sup with me. ”
Maris barely restrained a nervous giggle. Honored at her presence, indeed. As if she’d found her own way to Breakston—wherever that was. “Thank you,
my lord. ”
Bon was solicitous as he assisted her onto the bench next to his place. “I had half expected to drag you kicking and screaming down to sup with me,” he said, filling her goblet with thin wine. “Sensel had my orders. ’Tis glad I am that you chose to obey my wishes. ” His steely blue stare fastened upon her.
Maris looked at him from under her long lashes, refusing to be intimidated by his glare. “Aye, my lord, your wish that I join you—and not only for supper—was quite evident,” she said demurely. “Yet, I beg that any future travel arrangements you make for me will have more care to my comfort than these last. ”
Surprised, Bon laughed, turning every head in the hall back to the dais. He cocked his head to one side, taking a large gulp of wine. “And have you any other requests regarding your comfort, my lady?”
One of the serfs approached with a wooden platter of food, followed by another with several bread trenchers. Bon, as gallantly as any courtier, chose bits of meat and potatoes for them, placing the choicest pieces of rabbit on her side of the trencher.
Maris favored him with a brilliant smile, and its brightness seemed to be enough to stun even the sour Edwin, for he smiled in return.
“My lord, how kind of you to ask after my comfort,” she said sweetly, dragging a crust of hard bread through the meat’s juices. “There are a few suggestions I might make, my lord. For I am to be your chatelaine, am I not? I should not wish your hall to seem lacking to any visitors. ”
Bon stilled, turning to look at her. She could almost see the suspicion darting through his mind, like a rabbit through its warren. “You are to be my chatelaine, and my wife,” he said darkly. “You seem to be much too well accustomed to this notion, my lady. What game do you play?”
Maris wondered if perhaps she’d gone too far, but ’twas too late now and she must dodge his blow, thrusting with her own. “My lord,” she looked at him without wavering, “it appears that I have no choice in the matter. And in truth, as I must wed, methinks I’d sooner wed with a man whose desires for me are such that he should risk everything to whisk me away under my own father’s nose—rather than wed the sop eyed man chosen by my papa. ”
Bon looked surprised for a moment, and then a pleased smile settled over his features. “I do believe I have received my first compliment from the lady,” he said to Edwin.
“Aye, my lord,” Maris agreed, “and now, may I ask a boon of you?”
“Ask, my lady. ”
“May I be given charge of your steward and your cook?”
The expression on his face would have been comical if she’d been in the mood to appreciate it. “My steward and my cook?”
“Aye, my lord. The state of this hall is deplorable…and this food is not fit for the dogs that crowd about my feet. ” Her words, for the first time that evening, were truly in earnest.
Maris did not think she could survive until her father arrived to rescue her if she had to partake of what passed for food in this keep. “When was the last time these rushes were changed?” she asked, kicking at them under the table and landing her pointed toe in the ribs of a well fed hound. “And though my chamber is comfortable enough, it could use a good cleaning as well. It must be done before we are wed, my lord. ”
“We are to be wed on the morrow, my lady. ”
“On the morrow?” Maris managed to turn an expression of shock into one of joy before he could note the difference. “My lord, how you honor me!” Then, as if ashamed, she ducked her head.
After a quick, sharp prick of her fingernail at the corner of her eye, Maris raised her face and fixed him with a wide eyed look pooled with manufactured tears. “But, Lord Bon, I have naught to wear…and surely you would not wish to dishonor me by inviting our guests to a hall in such a state. Why, and if we are to wed on the morrow, I cannot have the time to prepare a proper meal for your vassals and your men. I do not know what the stores hold, nor the talents of your cook. ”