Chapter Eleven
Dirick sopped up the last of the juices from his bread trencher of bread with a hard crust. The Great Hall of Breakston was as loud and dirty as usual, and the food had not improved in the five days he’d spent there. He’d intended to leave the day before, but after witnessing the scene in which Berkle delivered his bad news to Bon, Dirick changed his mind. He sensed something was afoot, and decided to remain under Bon’s roof for another day or two.
He’d chosen an unfortunate day to remain at Breakston, however, for ’twas cold and snowing out side of the keep, and there were few amusements other than sitting near the stilted fire, or trading stories with the other men-at-arms. Dirick ached to be outside, exercising his swordplay and perhaps riding Nick, who was as eager as his master to be away from Breakston. As it was, it was barely past midday, and the time stretched before him.
Shoving away from the crude table, he ambled through the moldering rushes. One of the other mercenary knights who was in Bon’s employ hailed him to a chess table, and Dirick gratefully accepted. They’d just arranged their pieces when a great commotion erupted in the bailey.
Bon leapt to his feet from the bench on which he’d partaken of the midday meal. Dirick could see the glitter of excitement in his dark eyes, even from the corner where he sat. Excusing himself from the chess game, he stood slowly and unobtrusively made his way to stand near the high table. A group of men led by Berkle burst through the large oaken door carrying what looked like a long, rolled tapestry. As Dirick watched in amazement, a dozen of the men-at-arms gathered around. The serfs hovered in the background, staring with wide eyes.
With a quick flick of the wrist, Berkle yanked the tapestry roll, dropping it to the floor. It unrolled and a person—a woman—tumbled out, landing in the putrid rushes in a swirl of white gown and long, dark hair. Her hands were tied behind her back and she lay in the midst of her thick hair and the rushes, wincing as one of the dogs loped up to sniff at her. She wore a light chemise that had ruched up past the knees when she landed in her ignominious heap.
The gathered men reacted loudly with hoots and whistles, but the woman didn’t move. “
Her long hair hid her face, but when Bon leaned forward to brush it back, thus revealing a pert nose and sensual lips, Dirick froze.
It was Maris of Langumont.
Stunned, Dirick barely refrained from leaping forward to shield her from the men that gathered around. The moment that he paused, and thus remained anonymous, likely saved his life. There was naught he could do at this moment. ’Twas best to stop, watch, and listen before acting.
As Dirick struggled to master his horror—while at the same time, praising God that he had decided to stay longer at Breakston—Bon solicitiously helped Maris to her feet and sliced through the rope that bound her wrists.
“You are well come to my home, my lady,” he made a short bow.
Maris stood as straight as her stiff, trembling legs would allow. She was frightened and exhausted, her heart thumping so loudly she was sure it echoed throughout the hall. The trembling of her limbs made it nearly impossible to maintain what little composure she could draw to her defense. The chemise she wore was of the lightest linen and did not afford much protection from either cold or prying eyes, so she was thankful for her long hair.
“Why have you brought me here?” she asked in a hoarse voice. She recognized him immediately from his visit to Langumont.
As of yet, she had not turned her attention from Bon de Savrille, and had not looked closely at the crowd of gawking men. Instead, though she was overwhelmed by fear, she forced herself to hold the dark gaze of the bearded man standing before her.
“My lady, I have brought you here to do you the honor of making you mistress of Breakston,” Bon de Savrille told her as he reached for her hand.
But he froze, pushing back a thick lock of hair to look at what must be a large, purplish bruise on her left cheek.
He whirled on Berkle, the man who’d been the leader of the group who’d abducted her. “You have allowed my wife to be ill used!” de Savrille screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. “You were not to harm a hair on her head were my very words to you, you low lying, cat sucking whoreson!
A violently protesting Berkle was dragged from the hall, and immediately after issuing that command, a calmer Lord de Savrille returned his attention to Maris. He made a surprisingly subservient bow. “I pray you will accept my apologies, my lady, for your abuse at the hands of my loyal knights.” He leered at Maris, leaning forward to capture one of her hands in his and raising it to his mouth for a damp kiss.
Maris had been struggling to focus, to make sense of her predicament at the same time as keeping her composure.
Just as her thoughts began to separate and to clear, her gaze swept the group of men surrounding her. They rested on a face that was familiar, but out of place…and as the realization that Sir Dirick de Arlande stood in the crowd with her enemy, the world went blank.
She slid to the floor in the first swoon of her life.
“My lord!” exclaimed Ernest of the hillock as he was ushered to the dais in the great hall. Merle, along with his guests and wife, was breaking his fast after attending mass that morning.
“My lord Merle,” began Gustave, who approached with the horrified serf, “Ernest begs an audience.”
Ernest fairly trod upon the seneschal in his excitement to reach his lord’s table. Executing a brief, but respectful bow, he stammered in his guttural English that he’d found not only the body of Lady Maris’s maidservant, Verna, but also his lady’s brilliant blue cloak crumpled in the snow.
“What say you?” Merle bellowed, standing in his alarm. His words, too, were in English, and thus the meaning was lost upon the other nobility at the high table.
“Aye, my lord, ’twas a fright to me, my lord, whenst I came upon the bloodied, ravaged body of Verna of Langumont. Her’s not breathing or moving and sure as I stand, the wench is dead. And my lady Maris,” his eyes grew round, “’twas nawt sign of her’n but for her cloak, ’round the bend from mine own home.”
“Gustave, send for the guards of last eve,” Merle roared in French to the hovering seneschal.
“My lord, what is it?” cried Allegra, standing with a horror-stricken look on her face. Victor and Michael d’Arcy had stopped eating as well.
“Know you where Maris is this morn?” asked Merle fiercely of his meal companions. “Have ye seen her yet this morrow?”
They each in turn shook their heads. Allegra’s eyes had grown wide and her face pale as the snow beyond.
The guards from the watch of the night before rushed into the hall, startled out of their sleep, half dressed and with mussed hair.
“My lord,” bowed the captain of the night watch. “What is amiss?”
“Did my daughter leave in the company of her maidservant during your watch?” Merle fired the question before the man rose from his bow.
“Aye, my lord, she said on as she were called to the side of Ernest of the hillock,” explained the captain. “He was gravely injured.” His eyes swiveled to Ernest and realization washed over his face. He looked back at his lord, “She is gone missing?”
“Aye,” said Merle. Then, his voice rising in supplication, he bellowed, “Has no one seen my daughter?”
Silence greeted him.
“
“My lord husband,” Allegra’s voice wavered, barely heard above the roar of men calling to arms. “My lord!”
