Savrille.
“Agnes!” barked Bon, “Bring this man some food and more ale for me!”
A shadow moved from a nearby corner, transforming into a skittish, gown draped woman, and hurried out of the room. As Dirick’s eyes followed her, he noticed that the great hall was nearly empty of men-at-arms, serfs, and any other form of life with the exception of the mangy dogs that had followed them into the room. Feeling the weight of Edwin’s suspicious gaze on him, Dirick kept his face blank despite the fact that his mind was racing. At the very least, Henry must find another vassal for Breakston.
Edwin asked about his journey and Dirick filled the silence with superficial babble about the roads and the holes in them, along with comments about the weather.
“Ah, at last you have returned you worthless creature!” Bon greeted Agnes, who nearly stumbled over one of the dogs. “Clumsy bitch,” he muttered as she carefully poured a healthy portion of ale into his goblet, spilling nary a drop in the process.
When she turned to offer Dirick a piece of hard bread and pale yellow cheese, he noticed the long purple scar that marred an otherwise pretty face. Her hair normally would cover it, but it swung out of the way as she stepped forward. “Thank’ee milady.”
“Lady?” scoffed Bon, nearly spewing ale in Dirick’s face. “If ye take a liking to her, she’ll spread her legs fast enough to knock you over. Lady, indeed!”
Agnes ducked her head and her hair obscured her face once again. She turned away to her corner, drawing the folds of her gown so that she did not stumble again. Dirick turned to his food, stifling any outward signs of compassion for the woman.
Ale dribbling into his neatly cropped beard, Bon slugged a hand across his mouth and asked, “How fares the Earl of Chantresse? Is it true that his daughter was to marry Enrique du Mathilde?”
Dirick idly scraped a bit of mold off the last bite of cheese, aware that de Savrille was likely attempting to confirm his guest’s story of being French. The fact that he felt the need to do so was quite interesting. “Aye, my lord, they were wed Midsummer last. ’Twas said that the daughter, Elisabet, was near dragged to the altar and that her papa said her ayes.” He gave a short bark of laughter, certain that Bon would find the story amusing.
“God willing ’twill not be such a trial on my wedding day,” Bon mused behind the hand that wiped again at his beard. The words were soft and not meant for his ears, but Dirick discerned the comment with little trouble.
“’Tis fair unlikely to happen any different here,” muttered Edwin more loudly.
Bon shot him a glare, but that didn’t suppress Dirick’s ingenuous question. “Is there to be a wedding here then?” He made it a point to not look around the quiet hall.
“Aye, if the wench’ll have me,” Bon replied. He and Edwin exchanged pointed looks followed by deep guffaws of laughter.
“And the lucky wench? Does she bring a great dowry, then?” Mayhap de Savrille needed more funds to set the place to rights and meant to get it from his wife.
Bon’s eyes narrowed to slits as if he suddenly realized that the turn of the conversation was not to his liking. “’Tis a love match,” he snapped.
This set Edwin to coughing. He began to choke on his ale and was forced to spit onto the floor. The dogs rushed forward with enthusiasm, then slunk away when they realized it was only ale.
Bon glared at his amused companion and stood abruptly. “There is a place for your pallet there. You will join us in a hunt on the morrow, Sir Dirick.”
With that, he turned and, barked at the lump in the corner. “Agnes! Come!”
Dirick watched them leave, then, under Edwin’s sharp stare, gathered his belongings and trudged to the corner indicated by de Savrille. There were no more than five other men snoring in what he took to be the knights’ quarters, and as he shook out his blanket, a small furry creature darted from between them. Rats.
His stomach turned and he almost cursed his sovereign for sending him to spy on what seemed to be no more than two bumbling idiots who lived amongst rats. But he stopped himself in time, for cursing his God given sovereign, his brother the monk would warn, would result in either hanging for treason if done aloud, or damnation if done in private.
Instead, Dirick eased his travel worn body onto the only clean surface in the entire keep and closed his eyes.
Maris sat primly in her saddle, golden skirts fluttering lightly. The brilliant blue cloak that Dirick de Arlande had so admired covered her from shoulder to toe, and much of Hickory’s rump as well. Maris’s chestnut hair was modestly covered by a heavy golden wrap, edged in mink, and her hands wrapped in the folds of the rabbit lined cloak.
She looked every inch the proper, controlled lady of the manor.
Inwardly, she was seething.
“Are you certain that you do not yet tire, milady?” asked Sir Victor for perhaps the dozenth time since they’d left Langumont Keep’s portcullis behind.
“Nay,” she replied, for the dozenth time, from between clenched teeth. In sooth, she was wearier from holding Hickory back from the spirited canter—or even full gallop—that the mare, as well as her mistress, desired.
Maris slanted a glance to the man who rode comfortably next to her. He sat tall and straight in the saddle, loosely holding the reins, allowing his gaze to cast about over the villagers and the town buildings.
Victor’s straight cap of hair, as pale as the wheat grown in Langumont’s fields, barely shifted as he was jounced along in his saddle. He was not an unhandsome man, she admitted to herself—in fact, he was not at all hard on the eyes. He seemed to have an even temper, although he tended, like her mother, to protect her as if she were a child. It was Victor who had suggested the ride, and Maris, anticipating a great race across the northwest field toward the forest, had agreed with alacrity. Alas, when she’d given Hickory her head and they moved into a canter just outside the wall of the keep, her companion had actually reached over and
It had taken every ounce of control that she possessed not to loosen a torment of fury upon him. Instead, Maris, thinking of her father’s wishes, swallowed her angry words at his presumption and meekly settled into a trot. Mayhaps, she thought as they wound their way carefully down the main street of the village, he did not know of any woman as comfortable on a horse as she.
“Good day, Mistress Beth,” she called in English to the smith’s wife with a wave.
“Good day, milady,” the other woman responded with a bright smile. She had her youngest child by the hand, and nudged the toddler to wave also to the grand lady who rode past.
“You are much too familiar with the peasants, my lady,” murmured Victor with distaste. “And why on earth would you learn to speak their coarse language?”
Maris stared at him in shock. “And how else would I communicate with them if I did not speak their language?” she sputtered.
Victor turned to her in surprise, “As I—and all other nobility—do: through an interpreter. ’Twould be in your interest when you go to court that you forget your knowledge of English…else you will make of yourself, and me, a laughing stock.”
Maris turned an annoyed glare upon him. “Then my papa must not be nobility in your eyes, as he is the same one who encouraged me to learn the language. He himself does better than I!”
Victor flushed ever so slightly; in fact, it may have been just a stinging wind that caused his cheeks to pinken, and looked taken aback. “My lady, I—”
“’Tis in my best interest, Sir Victor, to rely on no one but myself as to what is spoken to me. Interpreters have been known to twist words into their own. Even the king and his queen read and write their own words, speak the language of their people as well as their own.”
“Lady Maris—”
She would not let him finish. Her temper had snapped and her father’s wishes thrown to the birds for the now. “And
