“Aye,” he replied. “I hear that Geoffrey is stocking his estates for war—claiming that Old King Henry meant for his son to relinquish Anjou to Geoffrey when he succeeded the throne of England.”
“Matilda is still at Westminster with Henry?” asked Merle.
“Aye. ’Twas she that kept him from heading off to Ireland to conquer the lands for his brother William. With Geoffrey stirring the pot in Anjou, the king has trouble enough across the channel that he doesn’t need to make more war here. The rumors are that the queen’s vassals do not much like him either.”
Merle tsked into his cup of wine as he took a long draught. “The king has his hands full,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. “But he is a man who loves his war and action.”
“Aye. And whilst Aquitaine seethes for her mistress, Eleanor, Anjou is about to be gobbled up by Geoffrey.” Dirick wiped his hands on a damp cloth proffered by a page. “And the queen is enceinte once again,” he offered in a low voice.
“Then she will not accompany her husband across the channel?” asked Maris, leaning around her father to look at him.
Dirick started, assuming that his conversation had been between himself and Merle, but he recovered quickly. “Nay, lady. She stays at Westminster—so the rumors say—because of her condition.”
Maris quirked her eyebrow in a most becoming manner. “It might be worthwhile for the king if her majesty visited Aquitaine if ’tis in such an uproar.”
“It’s not so bad as that…and Henry has enough problems with Geoffrey in Anjou. The king will cross the channel and leave Richard of Luci as official administrator of England. But the queen will still be here.”
Maris made a soft sound of comprehension. “The king might appoint Luci officially, yet the queen is certain to hold her own. She will be the one truly in control.”
Dirick almost choked on a chunk of bread, taken by surprise at her grasp of the situation, and her accurate assessment. Women didn’t talk politics—at least, women other than Matilda and Eleanor—and they were queens, for God’s sake. “Aye, my lady, I do believe you are correct. The queen stands back to none but her husband.”
Turning back to Merle, Dirick asked, “How fares the king’s chancellor? ’Tis said he takes the court by storm.”
“Aye, Thomas à Becket is the king’s friend as well as his chancellor. To think that it was the Archbishop who forced Henry to take him on as chancellor…now the two are nearly inseparable,” Merle replied.
“’Tis said the chancellor holds court rather than the king,” Maris interjected. “The king goes to Becket’s court, rather than the chancellor coming to his. Even the diplomats attend Becket, rather than the queen—which I cannot imagine she appreciates.”
“Nay, I would not expect it thus,” Dirick said. He cast a brief glance at his host, wondering whether the man was merely indulgent of his daughter’s vocal tendencies, or whether he encouraged it. And he wondered where Maris got her information—by listening in on such conversations, or from her father.
Or mayhap from whomever she was meeting in the village a night.
All at once, Lady Maris didn’t seem quite as naïve and innocent as one might think.
“Becket dresses in all frippery and serves the most gluttonous meals,” Maris continued. “’Tis said the king even rode his horse into Becket’s hall one evening for dinner!”
She paused to wipe daintily at her mouth, and Dirick’s attention followed her hand as it brushed over a pair of full, pink lips. He found his eyes caught there for a moment and his mouth went dry.
A surprise heat swept over him at the thought of tasting that sensual mouth—despite the fact that it hardly seemed to cease speaking. Tearing his eyes away while focusing on that wry thought, Dirick turned to his trencher and took a long swallow of wine. He had obviously been too long without a woman—a state he would rectify tonight. Until then, he would he would firmly steer his thoughts away from the daughter of his host.
“Maris, do you not carry tales,” Merle was admonishing her good naturedly.
“Aye, Papa,” she conceded with a smile. “Though ’twas only yourself who told me the same story last night.”
Merle chuckled and changed the subject, continuing to speak to his daughter—which gave Dirick a moment to redirect his base thoughts from the lovely woman sitting next to her father. “How fare the cooper’s wife and babes?” Merle asked.
“The woman is a bit weak, for she has lost much blood,” she said. “The babes thrive, and I’ve sent Bernice, the smith’s daughter, to wet nurse for them whilst Thomas’s wife recovers. Her own babe died this se’ennight past, and she was glad to do it.”
“Maris has the gift of healing and she spends much of her time in the village, caring for the people,” Merle explained to their guest.
“The cooper’s wife bore two babes?” Dirick asked, keeping his attention upon her hazel eyes instead of allowing it to drop lower.
“Aye. Both hale and hearty boys, though it was a horrific birthing,” she replied. “She was nearly lost herself and will have a long recovery.”
“You’ve done all you can for the cooper, and with the smith’s daughter to keep the babes, verily the mill will continue to function. I will visit him on the morrow to express my own felicitations,” Merle said as the last platters were cleared from the high table.
Dirick remembered how much it meant for him when his lord showed sympathy for his recent loss, and his admiration for Merle Lareux grew, knowing that he would do the same for a lowly peasant. Then all at once, a great yawn surprised him, nearly cracking his jaw with its violence. Dirick muffled it with a large hand and said, “Pardon, ladies, ’tis not your company which wearies me. I’d a long journey, and the day was even longer.”
“Of course,” Merle agreed. “Maris, will you not show Sir Dirick where the men-at-arms lay their pallets? And any other comforts he may need? Come, Allegra, let us go abovestairs.”
Maris stood reluctantly, dismay by her father’s innocent command. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with this man. She’d felt his attention returning to her again and again during the evening, and had been unable to ignore the interest in his stare. Try as she might, she’d been unable to keep her mouth closed and her mind on her food—as her mother had admonished her many a time. Nay, if the man was to wed her, he’d know from the beginning that she had her own thoughts and opinions, and an interest in the world beyond Langumont’s walls.
“Of course, Papa,” she said in a voice that disguised her discomfort.
Obviously, Sir Dirick did not miss her mislike of the situation, for as soon as Merle and Allegra were out of earshot, he said, “Lady Maris, I am perfectly able to find my own pallet.”
“Nay, ’tis my father’s wish. I should not put a guest out,” she smiled at him, swallowing the resentment she felt for being pressed into a marriage she did not want. In all honesty, it was not this man’s fault—and he seemed pleasant enough now that he was not ahorse. “Have you bathed?”
“Nay,” he shook his head, surprise flashing in his gray-blue eyes.
“May I offer you a warm bath before I direct you to your pallet?” she asked. “Gustave will bring the water. I won’t take long, and you will soon be for bed.”
“You?” Those eyes turned on her with a sudden intensity, and he looked at her for a moment, a very faint smile hovering at the corners of his mouth.
Maris’s throat went dry and she nearly stepped away from him and the unexpected stirrings in her middle. The sudden image of this man, devoid of his chausses and tunic, settled into a tub that would hardly fit his large body, filled her mind. His dark hair, which now curled wildly about his face and jaw, would be sleek and dripping, his broad shoulders bare and steam rising from dark skin—
Maris bit her lip as her cheeks flushed with warmth. What was wrong with her? She’d never had such lewd thoughts over such a mundane chore. “Aye, of course,” she managed to say in response to the question she’d nearly forgotten.