A Whisper of Rosemary

arrival.”

“Thank you, Gustave. Dirick, do you come with?”

“I’m certain you have much to discuss that does not concern me. Surely I can occupy myself until the evening meal so that I don’t interrupt your business.” Dirick wiped an arm across the sweat that trickled down his forehead, brushing his hair back in one slick motion.

“Nay, nay,” Merle said heartily—and so firmly that Dirick did not argue, “Come with me and meet my dear friend and his son. At the least, they shall have news, for they come from south of London, and will bring the latest from there.”

Merle led the way to the huge entrance of the keep, beckoning for Dirick to follow. Resigned, he pulled on his tunic and followed, wondering why Merle was so insistent that he meet his guests.

Inside the hall, Dirick sheathed his sword and rested it on one of the heavy oaken benches that lined a trestle table. Merle had already greeted the two men that were settled on stools in front of a blazing fire. Dirick approached, scrutinizing the Lords d’Arcy.

The elder—presumably the father—was comfortably sprawled on a three legged stool on which he sat tilted so far that his back rested against a nearby table. Pale, wheat colored hair hung in a cap just to his ears, cut straight across his forehead, and looking like a silvered helm. Pale blue eyes darted quickly to Dirick as he approached, then to Merle, then back to Dirick.

The younger visitor was definitely related to the elder: he had the same pale blue eyes that were colorless as ice, and thin wheat colored hair hung raggedly to his shoulders. He was a fairly large man—easily as tall as Dirick—with a tanned, square face and full lips.

As Dirick extended his hand to the father, he felt the gaze of the younger d’Arcy boring into him. An unaccountable sense of mislike swept over him and in a bald moment of self-recognition, Dirick understood why.

This man was to have Maris.

“Sir Dirick de Arlande, meet Lord Michael d’Arcy of Gladwythe and his son, Sir Victor.”

Dirick clasped the proffered wrist of Michael d’Arcy, feeling a renewed trickle of unease at the strange light in his pale eyes. Had the man a fever, or was he merely tired from travel?

Then he turned to greet the son, hiding his reluctance and sudden dislike. “Sir Victor,” he said, taking his time to observe the other man while he tried to place the familiar name.

“Sir Dirick de Arlande,” mused Lord Michael, running a finger slowly over his full lower lip. “I do not believe I have heard mention of you at court.”

“Nay,” Dirick’s lips thinned in a cool smile, “’tis not likely, as I am lately come from Paris, and have not spent time in the court of your Plantagenet.” His words carried the authentic French accent he’d become accustomed to while serving the queen in Aquitaine. He was determined not to divulge his true relationship with the king and queen.

Merle stepped in. “Sir Dirick has pleaded succor during his journey through England. I have kept him quite busy at Langumont for the past fortnight.”

Michael drank from a warmed goblet of wine, then, daintily wiping his lips and the tips of his fingers, glanced around the hall. “And where might the fair Lady Maris be? I am keen to meet her. As, I am certain, is Victor.”

Dirick accepted, and acknowledged, the little tic of annoyance at the reminder of the impending betrothal— then ruthlessly dismissed it. Why should he waste any thought or concern that the man was to wed Maris of Langumont?

The lady was not hard on the eyes—and quite delicious on the lips—but Dirick had no further interest in her, even if he wished to wed. Aye, she was a fair chess player and quick of wit, but it was of no difference to Dirick. He had a task to complete, for both his king and his father—and he’d wasted more than enough time here at Langumont.

Just then, Merle called across the room, “Allegra, wife, come attend our guests!”

The frail woman had just entered the hall, likely having been drawn from her solar at the arrival of the honored guests. She glided across the rush strewn floor.

Merle reached out for her hand and drew her into the circle of men around the fire as she looked up. “Wife, do you meet Sir Victor d’Arcy and his father, Lord Michael of Gladwythe.”

Dirick’s attention was on Allegra as she curtsied and nodded to her future son by law. She turned to Michael, and Dirick saw her eyes go wide, her mouth open in a silent gasp, and he watched as she crumpled slowly to the floor.

Instantly, the room was astir. Merle leapt to his feet, bellowing, staring down helplessly at the small heap at his feet. Michael’s face had registered no shock, and, in fact, Dirick noticed that he was the calmest of the bunch, leaning forward to ease Allegra by loosening the ties of her bliaut.

By the time Dirick had taken in these jumbled facts, Widow Maggie and Maella had scurried to their mistress’s side. The healer waved a small bouquet of herbs in front of Allegra’s nose, and Dirick was gratified to see her stir.

Allegra’s eyes fluttered open and her gaze rested upon the face that was nearest hers, one that was bent over her in concern.

Her lips moved and although he couldn’t hear the syllables, Dirick read the word on her lips.Michael.

Michael D’Arcy’s name. Dirick felt a prickle of interest and foreboding, and glanced at Merle. But the elder man’s face showed only concern as he assisted Lady Allegra to her feet.

“Allegra, are you ill? Is there aught can be done?” he was saying solicitously.

“Nay,” she replied. “Nay, my lord, I—’twas just a spell of dizziness.” She drew a shuddering breath and pulled herself to her full height, stiltedly keeping her eyes from Lord Michael.

The maid, Maella, had a stricken look on her face, and Widow Maggie was pressing a steaming draught upon her lady. “Shall I call for Lady Maris to attend our guests?” asked Maella.

“Nay. Nay,” Allegra forced herself to sound calm, forced the spots that danced before her eyes to disappear. She could not bring Maris into this mess until she thought how to handle it. “Maris is in the Village,” she explained, “And the ache in my head has gone.” She made a smile of her lips, and bravely turned to look at Michael.

Oh, God, it’s Michael. After so many years, how have You delivered him to me?

“May I offer my lord to bathe?” she said, trying not to sound too eager. “You are likely weary from your long journey.”

“Aye, a bath would be more than I could hope for!”

Allegra remembered their other guest and turned to the younger man. “I cannot attend thee myself, Sir Victor, but a bath will be prepared for you as well.”

“’Twould be most welcome. Mayhaps Lady Maris could attend me,” Victor suggested.

Merle spoke. “Maris is in the village, tending to the sick. I’ve sent a man at arms to fetch her, but likely she will not return until the evening meal.”

“Very well,” Victor replied, his disappointment obvious.

But Allegra gave little care to young man’s discomfort. One of the maids could see to him; there were plenty who would do. She had only one thought in her mind, and that was of Michael.

Here. Now.

Praying that her face didn’t show the high color that heated it, and that her husband had noticed nothing untoward, she led their guest out of the great hall to one of the large guest chambers.

Moments later, they were alone except for the serfs, bringing buckets upon buckets of steaming water for his bath.

Allegra could not stop her fingers from shaking as she unlaced Michael’s cross garters. She had to force her attention to the task, else her fingers would travel up the curve of his calves to relearn their strength.

To touch him.

How can this be? How can this be? Her mind chanted the phrase, echoing the incredulity that swept through her each time she looked at the man she had pined for, fantasized about, and