“An’ he did not.” Maris’s words were pained. Tears welled in her eyes for the loss of the person she’d loved most in the world.
“Nay, he did not…an’ I am thus torn that I was not there to cover his back in the battle, brief though ’twas, for they opened the gates as soon as the men nocked their bows. But instead of being there, I brought the message to the king. I was your father’s man, and I am now your man for my life.”
She rested a hand on his muscular arm. “Thank you, Raymond, I thank you for your words. I could not bear to think that I would go against my father’s wishes if I were to fight the betrothal contract. Now, at the least, I know that his spirit is with me ere I do.”
He squinted into the lowering sun. “Let us back to the castle, my lady. Eventide draws near.”
She nodded, suddenly elated at the thought of returning to the city. Doubtless, she would share the evening meal with her friends Judith and Madelyne…and, mayhap, chance to speak with Dirick of Derkland.
Chapter Nineteen
“Sir Dirick, would you not play the lute for us?” Lady Gladys simpered, looking at him over the rim of her goblet. “Her Majesty praises your talent.”
He forced his attention from the entrance to the Great Hall. Why had Maris not come to dinner? “Aye, my lady, how could one not have great talent when faced with such inspiration?” His lips curved into a smile that he did not feel as he pulled a leg from the goose offered by a page. The leg twisted easily from the roasted fowl, juices running down into the trencher he shared with Gladys. “Do you wish some, my lady?” he asked, avoiding a commitment to honor her request.
“Aye, my lord, as you prepare it so prettily.” She gave him a coy glance that failed to stir even the slightest response from him, and tore a small piece of bread from the trencher.
Even as he passed the meat to his dining companion, Dirick’s gaze scanned the room, searching yet again for the absent Maris. He sought, and found, Lord Victor and his father, who sat several tables further from the royal dais than he did. Their presence, at the least, soothed some of his concern as to why she was not at dinner. But, just as he brought his wine to his mouth, he noticed a man seated near the rear of the hall, where naught but the meanest men-at-arms were seated. Dirick froze and returned the goblet to the table, rising to his full height in surprise. Aye, ’twas him. Bon de Savrille.
The bastard should have been disseizened from Breakston after his abduction of Maris, but the king had yet to do so—a fact that annoyed Dirick to no end.
And what in the name of Christ was the man doing here, when he hadn’t been to court for years? Dirick was certain he knew the answer.
“What is it, Sir Dirick?” Gladys asked from next to him.
He barely heard her as he stepped over the trestle bench with the barest glance at her. “Pardon, my ladies,” he muttered to the table at large, pushing hastily around a page holding a pitcher of wine.
Dirick made his way to Bon de Savrille’s side in moments, ignoring the surprised murmurs of the other man’s table companions when he barged along behind them. “What do you here?” he demanded, placing a firm hand on Bon’s soft, broad shoulder
The other man craned his head around, then nearly fell back off the bench in surprise. “You!”
Dirick did not remove his hand. Instead, he slid his grip down to Bon’s upper arm and propelled him away from his dinner seat. “What have you done with her?”
“Take your hands from my person,” growled Bon, making a great show of brushing crumbs of bread from his tunic. When he finished arranging his clothing, he held a dagger in one hand.
Dirick stilled. Blood rushed through his limbs and he became aware that the attention of several men-at-arms from the table was focused upon them. A glint of steel winked in the torchlight, barely flickering as Bon held the blade steadily under his nose. Dirick forced himself to breathe normally, gathering his wits enough to look at the handle of the knife gripped tightly in the hand of the combative man before him.
“What say you sir?” sneered Bon. “You demand answers from me when ’tis you who availed yourself of my hospitality under false pretenses.”
Dirick jerked his gaze to a point behind Bon, reaching to the side as if to catch something. The ruse worked and the other man lost concentration, letting his glance shift away from Dirick for the barest of moments. It was enough to suit Dirick’s purpose as he lifted his knee in a powerful thrust, ramming Bon’s wrist and sending the dagger scuttling to the floor. He stepped closer to him, setting his jaw and muttering between clenched teeth, “What have you done with her?”
Bon grasped the front of Dirick’s tunic and shoved him aside. “Leave me to finish my meal.”
Before Bon could return to his seat, Dirick clamped a hand on his shoulder and yanked him back. “Where is Lady Maris?”
“Step back, cockspittle.” He shook off Dirick’s hand and swung.
Dirick ducked, aware that more attention had turned to them. He grabbed Bon’s tunic and dragged him so that they were chest to chest. Ale from his breath blasted into his face, and Dirick could see a piece of meat stuck between Bon’s two front teeth. “By God’s bones, man, tell me what you’ve done with Lady Maris.”
Bon shoved hard and succeeded in pushing Dirick off-balance. “I’ve naught to say to you, sirrah, that cannot be said with the steel of my knife. An’ I’ll gladly speak to you with that.”
“I vow, if you’ve laid a finger on her person, I’ll carve you into little pieces—”
“’Tis just as well my person is fine and fit,” came a musical voice from behind him, “else His Majesty’s meal would most certainly be ruined by the bloodshed!”
Dirick dropped his hand from Bon and turned to find Maris, flanked by Sir Raymond and another man-at-arms, with an amused, quirked mouth. She was unharmed, he noted immediately, and she was also laughing at him with those beautiful green and gold eyes. Laughing.
An annoyed flush rose to his cheeks and he realized that more spectators had been drawn to the watch the altercation, and that even the attention of the king and queen had come to rest upon them. The hall, usually so loud that the barking of a dog or the dropping of a platter went unnoticed, breathed as close to silence as a crowded chamber could.
“My lady.” He gave a stiff bow and didn’t quite meet Maris’s laughing eyes. “’Tis glad I am that you are unharmed.” He bent to retrieve Bon’s dagger, noting its unexceptional wooden handle, and returned it to the other man. “Unharmed. And she had best remain thus,” he said, his eyes boring into the other man’s dark gaze.
As he spoke those words, the attention of the diners returned to their meals as if the entertainment had never occurred. With one more glance at Maris, who watched him with an unfathomable expression, Dirick turned to make his way back to his place at the front of the hall.
Somehow, amid the din that had started back up to accompany the meal, he heard her gasp. He spun about in time to see Bon’s dagger slashing down upon him. Dirick instinctively raised his arm and the blade, which had been meant for his back, sliced through the woolen tunic, along the back of his shoulder. With a howl of rage, he leaped at Bon, knocking him to the floor.
Kneeling over the stocky man, he pinned one thick arm in the sweet rushes and grappled with the other that held the dagger.
“I did not ever,” he grunted, “have the occasion to repay the hospitality which—” Dirick’s breath was cut off by a knee shoved into his ribs, but that effort cost Bon the battle for the knife. “—The hospitality which you provided to Lady Maris.”
The brief, close struggle ended with the point of the blade very near Bon’s throat, and a crowd of men pressing in upon the scene. Dirick pulled himself to his feet, slightly winded but enlivened from the sudden intensity of the quarrel. “Get you out of my sight, else I will well and truly repay your graciousness to the lady. And know this—you need have no fear of turning your back to me, Bon de Savrille, for when I mean to strike you, there will be no need for stealth.”