“But your papa has been gone for a mere three moons,” Allegra wailed, her ever present handkerchief fluttering to the face that seemed much more weary and old since her husband’s death. “Can his majesty not leave us in peace until we have finished mourning?”
Maris shook her head in frustration as she pulled a bolt of finely woven linen from a trunk. In a terrible twist of fate, her father had been slain by a loose arrow as his men prepared to besiege Breakston—at a time after she’d already made her escape.
The irony and horror that she’d already been safe when her Papa was killed had sat like a heavy black stone in her belly for months.
“Mama, I must go to the king to pledge mine own fealty to him as heir to Langumont. ’T has been more than time enough since Papa’s passing in King Henry’s eyes, and it’s my duty as his vassal. ”
“I’ll not go,” Allegra told her.
“Aye, Mama, you’ll not. ’Tis I who must pledge to my lord. You’ll stay here. ” Maris didn’t think that her frail mother would last the journey to London. In the last few moons, her grey streaked hair had become almost pure white and the lines that creased her face bespoke of a great weariness and worry.
“Aye. An’ I’ll offer a score rosaries a day for your papa’s soul. ” The words came out in a moan.
“Agnes, this green linen I’ll have for an over tunic,” Maris announced, turning from her mother with relief. She handed the cloth to the woman who’d become an invaluable support since her return to Langumont and the death of its lord.
Taking the bolt, the maid added it to a growing pile of other fine cloths. If the Lady of Langumont was to be summoned to court, she’d be dressed in all the finery and fashion that her position warranted. The seamstresses had been working night and day since the missive from Henry arrived two days earlier, and still Maris delved into the stores of imported fabrics held in Langumont’s storage chambers. Most of her gowns would be made whilst she was at court to be certain that they were of the latest fashion, she thought to bring her own fabrics rather than pay the higher price most certainly demanded in London Town.
As Agnes took the cloth, a corner fell and something clattered to the floor. “Peste!” Maris exclaimed in surprise, reaching under the stool for the object. It was a dagger—one she’d never seen before—and she examined it with interest.
Allegra, brought from her trance of woe by her daughter’s unladylike language, sat upright when she saw the small weapon. “I’d forgotten. . . . ” she murmured, reaching to take the ornate dagger from Maris.
“How did this come to be in a trunk of cloth?” Maris hadn’t taken her eyes from the delicate but lethal dagger, replete with filigree and carv
ed roses on its handle.
“It was your papa’s,” Allegra said dreamily, turning the wicked looking knife around in her hands.
“Papa’s?” Maris couldn’t imagine her father owning something so feminine and delicate.
“Nay, ’twas a gift of his to me,” her mother explained.
“I’ll take it with me,” Maris said, knowing she might very well be in need of protection. The small weapon would be easily hidden and transported, yet would do very nicely slipping betwixt the ribs of a thief or other danger. She suspected that court could be more dangerous than a battlefield…with its dark, dank hallways and ears that listen betwixt the walls.
She leaned over and pressed a light kiss to her mother’s worn face. “God willing, I’ll see his majesty and return to your side before two moons,” she told Allegra.
London!
Maris straightened in her saddle, straining to take in every detail of the bustling city. The streets were narrow, beaten paths, lined with buildings and strewn with refuse. Hawkers selling their wares crowded between the people on foot and darted out from under the hooves of well reined mounts.
It was even louder than she’d expected, and much dirtier. But, to Maris’s innocent eyes, there was beauty in the variety of people that filled the streets. Since she rode Hickory, she had no concern of treading in the garbage that was everywhere. Instead, she gawked like the country girl she was as Raymond of Vermille led the entourage from Langumont to the king’s palace.
When he rode up beside her, she beamed upon him in a smile rare since her father’s death. “’Tis wondrous loud,” Maris commented. “And it seems as if it will never stop moving. ”
“Aye, my lady, loud and filthy,” Sir Raymond responded. “And unsafe, Lady Maris. You’ll not venture out without several guards. ” His words were the merest tentative, for he well knew that she was used to coming and going as she pleased. “I’ve sent Sir Garrek with the news of your arrival to his majesty. ’Twill be some days before the king will see you. ”
“Aye. Then I shall have time to settle and learn my way of the court. I hope to have chambers within and near the other ladies. ” Maris’s attention was drawn to a vendor dressed in unusual garb: dusty, draping clothing and a headdress of cloth wound around his head and face. He reminded her of Good Venny, for he had the same dark skin and her mentor had worn similar clothing. The man’s wares did not interest her, but the small furry creature that perched on his shoulder caused her to rein in Hickory for a closer look. “Sir Raymond, look you at that creature!”
The knight paused beside his mistress, “Aye, my lady. ’Tis called a monkey and comes from afar, mayhap from Jerusalem itself. ”
The other men at arms drew themselves near Maris and Raymond, causing a large blockage of the street. “My lady,” Sir Raymond said, attempting to pull her attention from the creature that held her fascination, “let us go on to the castle. We can return to the market when you wish, and, I vow, you’ll see more than a mere monkey. ”
Maris nodded in agreement. She could gawk and stare at the sights of London Town at another time. Now, alas, she must heed Sir Raymond and proceed onward.
The party gained entrance within the bailey walls of Westminster, and Sir Raymond helped Maris alight from her mount. Inside the castle, of which the great hall had been built by William the Conquerer himself, the steward greeted the Lady of Langumont and directed her to the chambers she would inhabit near the other wards of the king.
“Ward of the king,” Maris muttered to herself, her full lips flattening into a frown. ’Twas the first time she’d realized the reality of her new position, and its implications shook her composure.
She followed a page through the intricate hallways of the castle, suddenly aware of how different her life could become. The king’s ward was his to do with as he wished, to marry to whomever he desired a political alliance with, or give as a reward to a faithful vassal. He could even, Maris realized, require that she remain a permanent member of the royal court until such time as he chose to bestow her person—nay, her lands—upon some greedy lord that was not of her choosing.