Verily, dawn could be no more than two or three hours away. Dirick groaned at the thought. Henry expected him, as well as the other two bridegrooms, to join him for a celebratory hunt not long after the sun rose…to be followed shortly after by the wedding ceremony. In a matter of hours, he would be married to Maris.
Even in his befuddled state of mind, Dirick grasped the clarity of that fact. At this time on the morrow, he’d be abed with his new wife. And despite the amount of ale his men had poured down his throat, Dirick’s body reacted accordingly, filling and hardening with desire.
He’d not seen Maris since the announcement that her mother had arrived from Langumont. Between the king’s demands on his time, his new responsibilities as Lord of Ludingdon, and Maris’s attention to Allegra, neither of them had been in the great hall for meals at the same time. He’d not see her again, he realized, until they met at the altar on the morrow.
Not for the first time, Dirick wondered if she’d become accepting of the fact that he was to be her husband. He did not want a battle in their bedchamber on the night of their wedding if she had not.
She’d ever welcomed his kisses in the past, he reflected, the heaviness between his legs growing…and if they were truly wed, she’d have no reason, and, he prayed, no desire, to refuse him.
Dirick stumbled over a rock in the street and would have pitched face first onto the ground had Raymond not had a firm grip on his tunic. One of the men in their group—he thought it might be Sir Gerald, but everything was a bleary mess—guffawed loudly in the still night, commenting that his lord had nearly fallen into a pile of dung. Dirick responded with a slurred insult, which the rest of the men found so uproariously funny that they nearly failed to spot the shadow slouching along the wall near the castle’s entrance.
“Ho!” Raymond stopped short. He was the least inebriated of the bunch, Dirick realized, and was thankful ’twas he who’d offered to guide him home. “Who goes there?”
As the shadow moved into the torchlight, metamorphosing into Bon de Savrille, Dirick pulled himself upright, standing solidly under his own balance. His muscles tensed.
“What do you here?” Dirick demanded, separating himself from his men and approaching Bon. Through the haze of drunkenness, he found the comforting handle of his dagger.
“Do not fear,” sneered the other man, “I do not wait to accost you, but only to issue a warning. ”
“You seek to warn me? Against what?” Dirick choked back a deprecating laugh. Then he lashed out to grab the other man’s arm. “Is it you who seeks to show Maris to an early grave?”
Bon shook off his grip with effort. “Nay, fool!
Why would I wish to see the woman dead? ’Tis why I come to warn you. ”
Dirick stared at him, uncomprehending. “Speak more clearly, then, man!”
Bon leaned toward him, his dark eyes glittering with intensity. “I do not wish to see her dead, but there is one who does…and the same one wishes harm to you as well. ”
“Why do you warn me, then, as I know you have no love for me!”
The other man shook his head. “Nay, I do not,” he agreed, “but ’tis Maris for whom I care…and I would see her protected. ” He looked at Dirick with bleary eyes. “I love her. ”
“She is mine. ” Dirick snapped the words, suddenly afraid that Bon might find a way to have her.
“I am aware that the king has promised her to you. ” Bon’s reply was bitter. “But that is not the purpose of my warning to you. Ask yourself why did Merle of Langumont not return from Breakston, and you will know why someone desires her dead. ”
“Merle of Langumont died in the siege of Breakston, most like of your own hand,” Dirick returned slowly, the ale still swimming in his mind.
“Nay. Merle of Langumont was alive to accept my surrender,” Bon told him.
“You do not—”
Bon began to melt back into the shadows. “Nay, that is all I can tell you, sirrah, as I do not wish to be the next casualty…an’, in faith, I wish to be the one left to hold and comfort my lady when all is said and the battles done. ” With that parting promise, he disappeared from sight.
“Who is it!” demanded Dirick of the shadows.
“Her father. ” whispered a voice before its owner swept away into the night.
Her father. Dirick’s mind swam as he lay on his pallet, Bon’s words echoing in his memory, swirling among the ale that sopped his brain. Her father was dead, he reminded himself. What did the man mean? Nay, Merle was not her father, he remembered foggily. Ask yourself why Merle of Langumont did not return from Breakston. Why?
I love her. Those words taunted him with their sincerity. Another man loved his betrothed wife—truly loved her, if the pain in Bon’s voice was to be believed.
A heaviness settled over Dirick’s chest. His breathing quickened, then slowed, then rose faster again. If another man loved her enough to warn his enemy of danger, just to ensure that Maris should be safe, what would he do to have her?
The chamber around him spun and swam as he lay there.
Could she love him?