“Ahh…mmm….The lady’s bound fer some hardship herself, ’though it don’t ’pear that ye’ll be the one to bring it to her.” She slanted a knowing look at him.
“Hardship?” Dirick asked. “She’s hurt? Lost?” He struggled to pull himself from the bed, hardly daring to credit the fact that he was not only believing the words from the old crone’s mouth, but asking for direction as well.
“Sit yerself, if ye please, milord…yer jarrin’ the tea leaves an’ I cannot read them,” grumbled the woman. “She ’pears to have no evil ’bout her now. Fact is, I see naught but calm amongst her in th’leaves. Fer now. She’ll soon have a bad time, milord, but ’tis naught ye, nor any man, can shield her from. An’ ye won’ be seein’ her to prevent it, so don’ be harin’ yerself off when yer so weak ye can barely move yerself. It’s all over and done with, lord, an’ ye won’ be seein’ ’er,” she repeated, waving her hand as if to dismiss him into the bed. “Mmmm…an’ I see that she’ll soon be safe in the company of many armed men…so ye’ve naught to worry yerself ’bout, milord.”
“I—will I not see her again?” he asked. Something hollow settled in his fully belly, and then he dismissed the thought. Even if he should care to see Maris of Langumont again, how would the old crone know of the future? How did she even know of the present?
The woman frowned at the mug, angling the tallow candle over its depths. “Pah!” she spat suddenly.
“What see you?” Dirick demanded.
“Ahh, nay, ’tis only that I dripped a bit of wax onto the leaves.” She waved the offending candle in disgust, nearly splattering Dirick himself with hot tallow. “I s’spect ye’ll see the lady again, milord, but not fer many moons an’ ’t may not be to yer likin’ when ye do. But if ye go easy with the lady, mayhap…mayhap ye’ll win her.”
Dirick snorted and shoved the tattered blanket from his thighs.
“Milord,” chirped the woman in surprise, “ye cannot be well enough betimes to be up an’ about!”
“Good woman,” Dirick said, dismissing her concern as he groped for the boots resting near his pallet, “I am much thankful for your kindness, but I must be on my way. I must see to Lady Maris and get her to safety.” He stood, pausing to see if his legs would hold him and if the world had stopped, and then started toward the doorway with a fair amount of stability.
He stopped short, realizing that he had little to thank her with. “Good woman, I’ve only this to leave you with for my gratitude.” He dug into the small leather pouch that always hung from his tunic. There was only the cloth wrapped dagger—the clue to his father’s murderer—and a very few small coins. Pinching one from the bottom of the pouch, he pressed it into her hand, promising, “I’ll send to you with more as soon as I’m able. I give you many thanks, woman, for caring for me. I’ll see that ’tis not forgotten.”
The woman took the coin, admonishing, “Milord, ye needn’t be in any such hurry. Ye’ll not see the lady in the murderous mood yer in…and ’tis just as well, else ye’d be prone to do or say as ye shouldn’t!”
“Again, good woman, I thank you, and I thank you even for your dire predictions,” Dirick said, flashing a brief grin, “but I’ll be on my way.”
Tsking to herself, the woman followed in his unsteady footsteps to the doorway, and leaned against the wall as he let himself into the cold air.
“Have a care, milord,” she called as he mounted upon Nick. “An’ most especially, be yourself ware of the dagger!”
Though it had been nearly a full day since Dirick collapsed at the old woman’s hut, it wasn’t difficult to pick the trail left by a tired horse carrying two women. Since there’d been no snow, and the winds were low, he was able to see faint hoof prints and, more than once, the sweep of a skirt in the powdery white. Thank God women were prone to stop more often than a man for relief.
It was not long before he came upon an abbey. He rode to the entrance gate, hailing for entry. A robed sister accompanied a male serf to the gate and invited him inside.
“Sister, I seek a noble woman and her maidservant with only a single horse between them,” Dirick told her, declining to dismount until he learned if Maris was within.
The nun bowed her head. “You must speak with the Mother Abbess, my lord, an’ you seek information about any of our guests. Please come within.”
Gritting his teeth, Dirick slid from Nick and handed the reins to the serf. He forced himself to retain a grip on his patience as he followed the calm sister. She trudged so slowly he was tempted to take her arm and yank her along in his wake, but that would certainly not endear him to the Abbess.
In fact, once in front of the stern looking woman—whose disposition reminded him more than a little of his father’s hawk-faced mother—he managed to state his query in a calm, unhurried manner. He felt the Abbess’s look keenly upon him. She did not appear to be fooled by his seeming nonchalance.
“A lady such like you describe did just leave our gates early this morrow,” the woman told him. “A party of traveling monks and their escort did pledge to see the lady safely to her lands, as they rode in that direction.”
Dirick felt a keen sense of disappointment. Maris was in good hands to be returned to Langumont and he no longer had reason to be involved. As it was, Lord Merle’s lands lay in the opposite direction as Westminster, and ’twas well past time for Dirick to report to Henry on his findings about Bon de Savrille.
Alas, he’d not see Maris of Langumont again. It was only as he was drifting off to sleep on a pallet in the abbey that he remembered that the old crone had predicted just that.
Nearly a sevennight after she’d been abducted from Langumont, Maris and her escort rode up to the gates of the imposing keep.
“Hail, guard!” she called, urging her mount to the raised portcullis and separating herself from the rest of the travelers. “Do you raise the gate for me!”
She heard the shout of surprise from the watchman and the sudden scrambling to comply with her wishes. The portcullis rose quickly and easily as the drawbridge came down, and Maris, not waiting for the monks behind her, eagerly cantered across the slanted bridge.
“My lady! My lady!” The greetings and men at arms surrounded her so that her horse could go no further.
“We thought you dead, my lady!” cried one of the knights she recognized from her father’s retinue.
“My lady, ’tis horrible bad!” another man called, grabbing the bridle of her horse.
Maris slid from the saddle unassisted, smiling with relief, and patting the shoulders of the men she recognized. “But I am here and now all is well,” she told them, looking toward the keep. Verily her mama had been informed of her arrival, but there was no sign of anyone coming to greet her except the men in the bailey.
“Nay, nay, my lady!” Bern of Tristoff, the captain of the men-at-arms, urged her forward. “Nay, my lady, all is not well. You must see to your mama, as she is distraught and will not rise from her bed.”
“Aye, Bern, I’ll see her and she will regain her life, for I am safely returned.” She smiled gaily, so glad to be returned home…but none of the men and serfs seemed to share in the joy of her homecoming. “Send to me a messenger and I’ll see to Mama.”
She hurried toward the keep, noting that it seemed oddly quiet for the normal bustle of Langumont. She’d need to send a messenger to find Papa and relay the news that she was returned; their paths must have missed each other as he was on his way to find her. But first, she’d kiss her mama and show her that all was well.
“Lady Maris!” Bern dogged her heels, an urgent frown creasing her face. “Lady Maris, ‘tis the lord!”
“Aye, I must send to him that I am returned—”
“My lady!” The frustration in his voice was not to be ignored and he was at last gratified by his lady’s full attention. “Lady Maris, ’tis because of Lord Merle that the lady rises not!”
“Papa? He is here?” Maris’s heart leapt for joy. “I’ll not need the messenger, then.”
“My lady, the lord—he is dead.”
