lord.”
“Until the morrow, my wife.” And for the second time that night, Bon de Savrille meekly led his men from her chamber.
Chapter Thirteen
Allegra had not risen from her bed since Merle led his army of men at arms to Maris’s rescue. Maella fussed worriedly over her mistress, but the frail woman did nothing but clutch at a worn wooden crucifix and pray.
“Milady, ’t has been nearly two days. You must eat!” The maidservant thrust a bowl of broth under her lady’s nose. “Lord Merle will bring the lady home safely.”
“Nay.” Allegra’s voice was hoarse from overuse in cantations to the saints. “I have not much chance for life when he returns to Langumont. My lord Merle will kill me.”
Maella’s face grew soft at her mistress’s confession. Pulling a stool near the bed, she smoothed a worn hand over the furrowed forehead of the woman she had served since birth, noticing the new white streaks throughout her soft brown hair. They had appeared over night. “My lord is just and fair. He holds no anger toward you for the actions of your brother, my lady.”
“Nay.” Allegra’s hand curled around the hand that stroked her forehead. “Nay, Maella, ’tis not for that that I fear my life. ’Tis that I—I have told Michael that he is Maris’s true father, and begged him to release her from the betrothal.”
The maidservant drew back sharply. “My lady, you did not.”
“My daughter cannot wed with his son!” Allegra’s voice was stronger.
“Aye, my lady, but you did not tell the lord of the truth—yet you told Lord Michael?”
Maris had a plan.
She spent the day ordering the serfs about in the Great Hall, poking into the foodstuffs in the kitchen, and finalizing her plans to escape. Sir Dirick trod, it seemed, in her every footstep so that she was unable to turn without barreling into his large frame, and despite her mistrust of him, she found herself almost—
Lord Bon sat for much of the day in his throne like chair, watching in astonishment as Maris took the reluctant serfs to task. If either man noticed the absence of Maris’s maid, Agnes, they did not comment on it.
At the midday meal, the preparation of which had been supervised by Maris, Bon dug heartily into the excellent fare—as did the other diners.
“Ahh,” he belched, patting the hand of his intended wife. “I’d not realized the lacking of my cook! If you continue to feed me thus, I’ll not be able to sit a horse.” He laughed as if ’twas impossible to imagine this coming to pass.
Maris, noticing his already considerable girth, chose not to comment. Instead, taking a last drink of ale, she poked the venison in her trencher to the side. “My lord, there was a stink to some of the meat hung in your kitchens,” she told him. “I do not believe any of it was prepared for the meal, yet I cannot be certain. Much of the venison had been stewing before I came upon it. In any case, I rid the kitchens of what was left of the bad meat, but, my lord, there is naught for our wedding feast on the morrow.”
“Do you not fret, my lady,” Bon stroked her fingers, heedless of the grease that slicked his own. “’Twill not be the first I’ve eaten bad meat…an’ I have already planned a hunt on the morrow for our wedding feast.”
“My lord, you have astonished me yet again with your foresight!” Maris fluttered her eyelashes at him as she pulled her hand away. Wiping it surreptitiously on the edge of his tunic, she clambered over the bench, noting with satisfaction that there was nary a crumb of food left for even the dogs to nibble on. “Pray excuse me, as I must see to the evening meal, now, my lord,” she hurried away.
“It was an excellent meal, my lady,” Dirick’s deep voice came behind her as she crossed the hall.
Her back stiffened even as her heart leapt. She had not forgotten his rude awakening of her the night past, and the way his warm, solid body had pressed into hers. Thus, Maris studiously ignored the man as she entered the kitchens. After giving rapid direction to the cook, she gathered her skirts and returned to the hall to order the rotting rushes to be removed.
By the time new rushes were being spread upon the floor, Maris’s stomach was churning.
“My lord, I will withdraw to my chamber,” she approached the dais. “I do not feel well.” The queasiness that stole over her was not entirely fabricated. “I will nap and join you for supper.”
Bon nodded graciously, “Of course, my lady. I shall send Agnes to you ere I see her.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Maris turned and walked steadily toward the stairs, aware of Dirick’s dark gaze boring into her back. He must not suspect anything, she thought, pulling herself slowly up the steps. Desperate, knowing that his gaze had held a hint of suspicion at her excuse, Maris jammed a finger down her throat as she rounded the corner at the top of the steps.
She managed to gasp a convincing, “Sir D—” before she turned and retched up her dinner—right onto Dirick’s leather boots. Sagging against the rough stone wall, she struggled for breath against what was actually a laugh at the horrified look on his face.
“Pardon,” she managed to make her voice sound embarrassed and contrite. “I must lie down.” She fled from his presence and into her chamber as quickly as her “illness” would allow.
Once behind the closed door, she allowed her mirth to escape, smothering her giggles with the heavy pillows on her bed. It was several moments before she heard Dirick take up his post outside her door—just enough time for him to have wiped off his boots and called for someone to clean up her mess.
Maris dozed whilst she waited for Agnes to join her…and for all chaos to begin belowstairs. She would need all of her faculties about her later that night.
When the maid arrived at the bedchamber, she was in good spirits. “My lady, ’tis happening,” Agnes announced as the door shut heavily behind her. “Just as you said!”
“Excellent.” Maris smiled complacently. “How does our guard seem to be faring? ’Tis he who concerns me the most…besides my lord Bon.”
“Sir Dirick has not become ill yet, though from the very look on his face, verily he will be reaching for a chamberpot soon.”
“Or rushing for the garderobe.” Maris stifled a giggle.
“What did you put in the food, my lady?”
“’Tis a plant called broom,” she explained. “’Twas all good fortune, really, Agnes, for one of the old brooms in the kitchen had bristles made from the plant. The dried branches, with leaves and flowers, may be steeped and used for medicinal purposes. Yet, my mentor, Good Venny, always warned that ’tis an herb that must be used with care, for it has great power. It causes the body to—ah—dispose of its contents in a violent manner. Though it won’t kill them, it will likely cause more than one to wish for death. It was a much better choice than elder bark, which I had thought to use until I saw the broom.”
“Do you not think Lord Bon will suspect ’twas you that poisoned the meal?” asked Agnes.
Maris rose from her prone position on the bed. “Nay, for I told him that the meat stank, and that mayhap some of it was prepared for supper. Then, I made myself sick upon Sir Dirick’s fine leather boots.” She drew the tattered tapestry back from the window slit, noting with satisfaction that the sun had nearly set. “Is all in readiness?”
“Aye. I have hidden the foodstuffs I purchased in the village with your ring, my lady, and a mount awaits us near the hidden entrance to the keep.”
Maris turned in surprise, delight spanning her face. “A mount, you say? Agnes, how on earth…?”
“The stable master bears no love for Lord Bon, my lady, and ’twas no great feat to convince him that I plan to escape with a lover now that my lord has found a bride!”
“Very well, then. ’Tis nigh time that we should leave.” She scrabbled through a trunk and pulled a large
