Colleen Gleason
A Whisper of Rosemary
Prologue
“I cannot wed him!”
Allegra, Lady of Cleonis and Firmain, grasped at her lover’s hands, clutching them with her cold fingers. “’Tis you I love! Only you!”
He smoothed a hand down the side of her face even as pain thrummed in his temples. “My love, you must do as the king wills. And you know that I cannot wed with you, for I am promised to another.”
Tears glistened in her eyes and he thumbed one away, then reached to hold her hands with both of his own. He blinked furiously, squeezing his eyes closed, trying to force the pain away from his head, but it would not abate.
He must not think on the image that came always with the pain, the image of his parents lying, broken, on the ground beneath the tower. It had happened long ago, and there was naught he could do to save them—then or now.
“What shall happen when I couple with him? There will be no maidenhead to breach, and Lord Merle is like to kill me for leading him falsely!” Allegra’s tears fell freely now, and her voice held a clear strain of panic.
He strove to clear his mind, and to find a way to stem her weeping. For if he did not have relief, he would go mad. Mayhap he already was.
“I shall send to your maid a pig’s bladder filled with blood. You will hide it under your pillow, and when you couple with your new husband, you must cry out in hurt, as you did with me.” He tightened his fingers around her wrists, ignoring her gasp of pain. “And when he sleeps anon, you will break that bladder of blood and smear it over your thighs, and on the bed sheets. And Lord Merle will be none the wiser.”
Allegra’s blue eyes pooled with tears and grief. “Aye. And then I shall be wed with a man I do not love, whilst I carry the babe of the man I do.”
~ Part I ~
Chapter One
“Lady Allegra, a man has arrived below-stairs and wishes to speak with you.”
Maris looked up from the embroidery on which she had been trying to concentrate and eagerly dropped it to the table in front of her. “I’ll attend to the visitor, Mama. I’ve enough of needles and thread for the day.”
She rose, glancing automatically out the narrow window for a sign of approaching riders. There was naught on the horizon but snow-covered hills and sparse trees.
Her mother, Allegra, Lady of Langumont, gave her a vague smile and made no move to stir. “And if you continue to seize every opportunity to put your sewing aside, how will you finish your father’s surcoat by Christ’s Mass?”
“I’ll finish it in time, Mama,” Maris told her. And she would, too, for it was almost as if her father couldn’t return home in time for the celebrations
“Very well,” Allegra told her. “Greet our visitor in my stead and do what you can for him.”
It was the difference between she and her mother, Maris reflected as she hurried down the curving stone staircase. She moved with such alacrity that the tapestries billowed against the walls and wisps of her hair fluttered against her cheeks. Her mother had always preferred to wait for what would come, whilst Maris rode eagerly to meet trouble—or anything else of interest.
In the absence of Lord Merle, her father, Maris managed the fief, with the help of Langumont’s steward. Allegra was content to stitch on the many tapestries that decorated the walls, or to manage the sewing ladies. Mayhap, if roused, she would make selections of fabrics, or choose meats for the evening meals, but she did not bestir herself with managing the estate.
Such was gladly left to her enthusiastic daughter, the only child of Allegra and Merle, and the sole heiress to Langumont’s vast holdings. It was only right that a woman who was heir to such large holdings must clearly understand the management of them—from every home of each villein and tradesman, to which fields belonged to the overlord, and which were left to the villagers. She knew every inch of every acre of forest as well, and rode out with her father as often as he allowed.
When she was near the bottom of the stairs, Maris took a moment to adjust her headdress and wimple. The Lady of Langumont might be busy, but she never appeared rushed.
At this time of the day, mid-afternoon, when the winter sun sunk low to the trees, the hall was empty of men-at-arms and bustling with serfs preparing for the evening meal. A lone, stationary man dressed in fine clothing stood near the stone fireplace that stretched nearly the length of one wall. He appeared to be surveying the room, and when Maris came into his view, he turned to look at her.
She approached him with regal bearing. “I am Lady Maris Lareux. You are well come to Langumont Keep.”
He was not overly tall, but taller than she, and his small, sharp black eyes scored over her as if snatching in every detail in a large gulp. More of an age with Allegra than Maris, the man was mayhap one and a half score.
He was not unpleasing to look upon, with his gleaming black hair, fashionable moustache and neatly trimmed beard, and at first, he appeared neat and well dressed. Yet as Maris returned his bold gaze with one of her own, she noted the splotch of a stain on the midriff of his tunic and the frayed hem of the cross-garters on his left leg.
“I am Bon de Savrille, my lady. I had not expected...I was led to believe that the Lady of Langumont was called Allegra.”
“Lady Allegra is my mother,” Maris told him. “She has asked that I greet our guests and tend to their needs as she is otherwise occupied. May I offer you aught to eat or drink? If you have a message for my mother, I would be pleased to relay it to her.”
“Nay,” he returned, his gaze sweeping her again so that she felt the urge to look down and make certain the laces were tied at her bliaut’s bosom. “Nay, ’tis not she to whom I wish to speak.”
“But you did request to see the Lady of Langumont,” Maris pressed. “Do you bear a message of some sort? From my father?” A sudden fear seized her middle.
“Nay. I am merely in need of a pallet for the night, as I am traveling to my home. I asked only for Lady Allegra, as her name was familiar to me. I knew her once long ago, and had heard that she was lady here.” He smiled, and though he likely meant it to be a warm one, Maris thought it carried the greasiness of an undercooked hare.
The man was odd, but she did not fear him. Nay, she had no need to fear him, or any other man while in Langumont. At the slightest crook of her little finger, any number of men-at-arms would rush to her assistance or
