Judith, whose coppery hair shone from beneath a sheer wimple, agreed. “It isn’t that you weren’t dressed finely before, but now those lady cats can sheath their claws and keep their comments about country mice to themselves,” she said. “Although,” she added, looking at Maris with dancing blue eyes, “I suspect that you would have no problems clipping any claws that came too near you. Verily, that emerald is the size of a goose egg!”
Maris looked down at the jewel, suddenly uncertain. “Is it too large? Will the queen be annoyed?” She didn’t care if the other ladies envied her jewels, but she surely didn’t wish to flaunt her wealth if it would insult the queen.
“Oh, nay,” Judith said, laughing merrily. “’Twill just cause her to suggest that her husband raise the rents and taxes on Langumont. She will say that you obviously have too much excess in your coffers!” She looked at Madelyne, still grinning. “At the least you aren’t hiding them beneath your trunks, as Maddie tried to do.”
Madelyne gave a soft laugh when Maris looked at her in surprise. “Judith speaks the truth. I had to become used to wearing such baubles when I came to court, for I’d spent nearly a decade cloistered in an abbey, where everything was very simple. Even now, Gavin feels the need to prod me into showing off my finery.”
“Very well, then,” Maris said, comfortable now. “I shall flaunt my jewels beneath the queen’s very nose. Shall we be off?”
Upon entering the Great Hall, the three women made their way toward the trestle tables where Eleanor’s other ladies in waiting were seated. After her brief audience with the beautiful but austere queen two days earlier, Maris had been given a firm royal invitation—which amounted to nothing less than an order—to join Eleanor’s court until further notice.
The ladies had to pass in front of the royal dais as they wended their way through the rows of tables and hoards of self seeking courtiers. Intent upon her feet and their placement, Maris didn’t look up at the royal couple and their supper guests until Madelyne paused to sweep a curtsey in front of the queen.
“You look well, Lady Madelyne,” Eleanor said from her high seat. “Your condition agrees with you, and your husband too, I trow.”
“Thank you, your majesty,” Madelyne replied in her easy, serene way. “I only hope to look as fine and healthy as you have after the babe comes.”
Eleanor, who had just given birth a month earlier, smiled and gave her a look that seemed to say,
“Aye, indeed, your Majesty,” Maris murmured, curtseying first to Eleanor and then to Henry. As she straightened, her gaze fell upon a tall figure just settling into his seat near the king.
Sir Dirick.
Their gazes clashed for a moment—his stormy blue and gray, remote and impersonal—before Maris pulled hers away.
But her heart was pounding and her palms felt clammy, and even the insides of her belly felt as if a flock of birds had taken flight therein. As her heart thumped in her throat, Maris kept her gaze averted and her chin lifted proudly. She gathered her skirts and followed Madelyne and Judith when they turned from the dais.
This was the first she’d seen of Dirick since their meeting in the king’s chambers two days earlier. One of the ladies had gossiped that Sir Dirick had been sent off on the king’s business, and Maris had hoped for his return to be long in coming.
Yet even as she took her seat, gracefully gathering up her gown to swing it over the bench, the image of his solemn face was foremost in her mind. In that brief moment, she’d noted how tired he looked. His face was drawn and deep lines creased his lean, tan cheeks. His thick, dark hair was pulled unstylishly from his face and tied at the nape of his neck.
Under the pretext of turning to fill her cup with wine, Maris sneaked another look at him. He was deep in conversation with the king, having taken a seat next to his lord instead of with a lady between them, as was proper. Their discussion seemed to be intense and humorless, and she wondered what they were discussing. Yet, even as she wondered that, she noticed the breadth of his shoulders next to that of the king, and the way his dark head loomed over that of the ginger-haired king. One sleeve of Dirick’s undertunic had fallen back to the elbow, revealing the hardness of his well toned, tanned forearm.
He looked up at that moment and Maris jerked her gaze away, lifting her cup quickly to hide her face. ’Twas her misfortune that the hasty swallow of sweet red wine choked her, and she was overcome by a fit of coughing. Once she’d regained her composure, a quick peek at the dais revealed that a complacent smirk had settled on Dirick’s face, making her certain he was laughing at her.
Feeling the warmth of a flush spread through her cheeks, Maris leaned toward Judith and Madelyne, forcing herself to concentrate on their conversation.
“Aye, an’ he’s not too telling upon the eyes,” Judith was saying with a sly look toward the high table. “But he knows it well, I vow. That kind always does. Gavin is well-acquainted with him, is he not, Maddie?”
“Aye. In fact, they both were pressed into service by the king on a recent problem related to some fief in the west. It kept Gavin traveling quite oft from here to there in the last two moons, and he would tell me naught of it.” Madelyne smoothed her hands over her pregnant belly as if to explain her husband’s reticence. “But his majesty was highly pleased at the result, and rewarded my husband well.”
Eager to join the conversation—any conversation—Maris said, “Of whom do you speak?”
“Aren’t you acquainted with Sir Dirick?” replied Madelyne.
Her face heating, Maris shook her head and took a nibble of roasted pheasant. “He and I have met but briefly, and did not find each other to our liking.”
“Is that so?” Judith turned a bemused look onto her. “I cannot imagine finding anything
“Dirick de Arlande—” Maris began, but Judith interrupted her.
“Dirick de Arlande? Nay, you mean to say Dirick of Derkland, do you not?”
“Derkland?” Maris blinked, remembering the kind, giant of a man to whom her father had tried to betrothe her. But he’d only had eyes for Joanna of Swerthmore, and that had suited Maris just fine. “Does he have a brother named Bernard?”
“Indeed,” Madelyne said, watching her with interest. “Gavin knows the family well. There is also the middle brother, Thomas, who is a priest.”
Maris glanced up at the high table and saw Dirick looking at her with an arch expression. “Whatever his name might be,” she continued tartly, turning away, “Dirick of Whatnot is nothing like his elder brother, for Dirick is naught but an arrogant, rude, man at arms with little to his name but a fine destrier, which he no doubt won in some lucky moment of combat. He might have fooled the king, but he has naught to bring a woman but lies and tricks.”
Madelyne and Judith exchanged glances but neither spoke again, although Maris felt the latter’s assessing glance on her.
She turned away and helped herself to a soft roasted turnip, ignoring the pang in her middle. The man was insufferable. And despite what Madelyne had said, she still had no reason to believe that he hadn’t participated gladly in her abduction, confidante of the king or nay.
She was just beginning to enjoy her meal when a heavy hand settled on her shoulder.
“My Lady Maris,” purred a familiar voice in her ear. “’Tis glad I am to see you in full possession of your health.”
Startled, she looked up to see Victor d’Arcy with a cold smile on his face.
Dirick stuffed a large chunk of bread into his mouth, watching as Victor d’Arcy approached Maris. The familiar surge of dislike oozed through him at the sight of the blonde man and he chewed rapidly.
The sound of the queen’s husky, pleasant laugh rang next to him, and she leaned closely enough to speak in his ear. Her exotic scent wrapped around him, drawing Dirick reluctantly from his thoughts.
“What ails you this night, Sir Dirick?” Eleanor asked. “You have the expression of one who’s eaten a lemon.”
Willing to be distracted, he turned to her, summoning his most charming smile. “Naught, your majesty, of
