Dirick was seated comfortably in the corner of Breakston Hall that was the darkest and most unobtrusive, but close enough to the roaring fire that warmth emanated to his very toes. It was after the evening meal—if one could call the fare that had been set before him food—and there were fewer people than usual in the hall.
His mail hauberk, one that was of such quality that it would certainly be remarked upon as to how an itinerant mercenary knight had come to own it, had one taken a close look at it, lay draped over his crossed knees. He sat in rushes that were so old that he dared not contemplate what might be living among them, polishing the mail, and silently observing the lord of the hall.
There wasn’t much to observe.
Dirick had been at Breakston for nearly three days, and he’d come to the conclusion that de Savrille and his comrade Edwin Baegot were merely sloppy, stupid men who had no business calling themselves knights, let alone land-owning lords.
There was, he intended to remind his sovereign, no law against having a lack of common sense…and although Henry Plantagenet had good reason to feel slighted that Bon had not graced his presence, Dirick intended to inform the king that it was no great insult. In fact, he planned to leave on the morrow to make a full report to his king, along with the recommendation that Bon de Savrille be disseissened from Breakston. There could not be another fief in all of Henry’s kingdom that was in such disrepair.
And then, God willing, Dirick would be free to follow the lead on the other task he’d set himself to.
“My lord, Berkle has returned. He has news of great import,” proclaimed Sir Robert as he burst into the hall.
Even from his shadowy corner, Dirick could see Bon’s head snap up from his ever-present goblet of ale. “Send him in immediately,” was the reply.
Curiosity and instinct had Dirick melting into the shadows, attempting to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.
Moments later, a tall, thin man dressed in a heavy black cloak was ushered into the hall. He hurried over to Bon and Edwin, and muttered something that, try though he might, Dirick could not understand. He caught the words “betrothal” and “two days hence” before Bon erupted from his huge chair with a roar.
“The bitch!” he snarled. “How dare that cock licking whore ignore me!” He flung the tankard of ale across the chamber. It splattered all over before it hit the stone wall with a loud clang. “I will have her! I will have her if—”
Bon suddenly stilled as if he realized there were other ears in the room. He glanced over his shoulder at Dirick.
But Dirick had prepared himself for such an eventuality. He was propped in a far corner, head back against the wall, jaw relaxed…certain that even Bon could hear the snores that rose from an obviously drunken man-at-arms.
Yet Dirick watched through slitted eyes as, red faced with rage, Bon sat back down on his stool and gestured Edwin and Berkle to pull their seats closer. And then he began to give orders in a low, urgent voice.
The day after her betrothal was announced, Lord Merle was in his receiving room, going over the accounts with Gustave, Langumont’s seneschal.
It was a large chamber on the same floor as the women’s solar, but much smaller than that woman’s chamber. It was, however, comfortably furnished, with two heavy chairs, a table for the scribe, and several stools. A large abacus graced the table, along with sheets of vellum, writing utensils, and wax candles for sealing documents. Bright tapestries hung on the walls and candles lit every corner of the room.
Merle looked up from the table where he and Gustave were perusing the account books when Maris walked in. He couldn’t help but note how very elegant and ladylike she looked in a pale blue overtunic that trailed behind her. Her eyes were wide and dark in her set face, and immediately he knew that this would not be a pleasant conversation.
“Gustave, please excuse us. I believe my daughter would like words with me.”
Ever since the evening before, when he’d stood and announced that she would marry Victor d’Arcy, Merle had been expecting this moment. In fact, he’d been surprised it had taken nearly a whole day for his daughter to approach him. After all, he’d finalized the contract and made the announcement without warning her in advance.
She’d taken it stoically the night before, he admitted to himself.
“How fares your mama this morrow?” he asked, gesturing for the person he loved the most in the world to sit on a cushioned chair next to him.
Maris’s pretty face creased in a frown. “She has been awake since last evening, but she mumbles and raves on about things I do not understand. She speaks of a ‘great sin,’ and of ‘damnation,’ and in great despair of ‘halting this mistake’. She will not explain to me. Her body is fine, ’tis her mind that worries me.”
“I do not understand this,” Merle stroked his beard as he was wont to do when confronted with such a problem. “My lady has never been as energetic and strong as you, daughter, yet she has not been prone to such fainting spells either.”
“Perhaps she is with child?” Maris suggested, then shook her head before Merle was able to react. “Nay, Papa, for you have just returned home. I do not understand it myself.”
“But that is not why you have cornered me in my chambers, is it, my sweeting?” Merle asked. “Methinks you have come to share with me your displeasure for the announcement I so rudely surprised you with last eve.” His gaze was soft, but his words were firm. “I shall tell you now, daughter, that I will brook no arguments from you in this.”
“’Twas not as much of a surprise as you may have anticipated, my lord,” she told him primly. “You did make a warning to me when Victor and his father arrived.”
“Aye, that is true. I confess, I expected more of an argument from you on this. Have you then come to terms with my decision?”
“Lord Victor made it very clear to me that I was soon to belong to him,” Maris told him without trying to hide the bitterness in her voice. “As we rode through the village, first he deplored my knowledge of English, telling me I will be a laughing stock when he takes me to court…and then he attacked me.” Tears welled in her eyes and she wiped them away with sharp movements.
Merle stilled, shocked at the presumption of the young man, and yet, at the same time, he knew how provoking his daughter could be. “He attacked you for no reason?”
Maris had the grace to drop her eyes from his steely gaze. “N nay, Papa. I could not bear to listen to his pompous words and hold Hickory to a mere trot, so I let her go and we raced across the north field. We stopped at the wood, and he caught up to us there. He was not in good humor.” Her face had gone pale.
“Did he strike you? I see no bruises,” Merle asked, more disturbed at the expression of revulsion on her face than her words.
“Nay. He did not strike me.”
“’Tis a man’s right to strike his wife,” Merle reminded her, though his concern was heightened. “Although I do not believe it is seemly for a stronger one to exert his power over a weaker one in such a way.”
He sighed. “Mayhaps I have not done right by you, Maris, in keeping you not only from court and those who live there, but also in protecting you from the harshness of this world. You’ve not been raised to expect anger or violence from your hoydenish ways…yet outside of Langumont, many would be appalled at your actions, and your disregard for propriety.”
“Papa—” Maris’s eyes filled with tears.
He stopped her by drawing her into a tight embrace. “Maris, love, you must know that it is above all important to me to provide for you, and ensure that you are cared for. I know that you do not wish to marry, but you must know that I love you, above all things on this earth, and that it is only the recent reminder of my mortality that has prompted me to finalize your betrothal. I know that I will not always be here to protect you, sweeting, and that is the only reason that I would send you away to wive with any man. Lord Victor will care for you, and for Langumont.”