A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3)

Dirick was rendered momentarily speechless by her blunt question. “Lady Maris—” A noise behind drew his attention. “Who goes there?” he called, stepping in front of her with a sudden, graceful movement, hand going to the sword buckled at his waist.

“’Tis Peter the Marshal,” replied a voice, matching Dirick’s in warning. “An’ who be ye?”

Maris brushed past Dirick, and the scent of her, fresh and lemony, filled his nostrils as she stepped into the walkway. “Peter, good morrow to you. Hickory’s leg is near healed,” she said. “’Tis Sir Dirick de Arlande with me,” she explained as the stooped old man peered at Dirick over her shoulder. “Peter has been Langumont’s marshal for near three score years—and his sons and grandsons after him.”

“Aye, I see—you have the same look as the young man who took Nick’s reins upon my arrival. He had a gentle touch with my stallion, a definite way with horses,” Dirick replied.

Peter nodded with pleasure. “Aye, my lord, ’twas my oldest grandson, Percival. I vow, ’e ’as ’orseblood in ’is own veins!”

Dirick chuckled, and his attention turned back to Maris when she knelt to show Peter the mare’s foreleg. By now the stable was fairly light, and the shades of grey had turned to muted color. The fat braid that roused his curiosity had been flipped back over her shoulder when she stooped and he nearly reached out to touch its glossy darkness. Chestnut hair. Chestnut hair and green and gold flecked eyes and full pink lips.

Dirick jerked his thoughts back from where they skittered into impropriety just as Maris stood. They were nearly on top of each other. Her nose almost bumped his chest when she turned quickly and he took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest.

She ignored him. Peter had her full attention and her eyes snapped golden while her cheeks flushed pink as she explained the healing process of Hickory’s leg as proudly as if the mare’s steps were her own child’s first ones.

When at last the marshal turned to go about his business, Maris turned to Dirick. “Well, sir, do you intend to stand there supporting the stable wall all the day? I assure you, my Papa would not allow any building on his lands to come to that state in which a well paid man should spend his time holding it up.”

He couldn’t help but grin at her saucy tongue. “Nay, lady. I but wait for you to finish trilling with the marshal and leave to go about your business.”

“Trilling, indeed.” She stamped her foot indignantly, and even in the soft dirt floor he could hear the thud.

“God’s bones, lady, do you sound like my destrier when he seeks a mare in season.” He cocked an eyebrow and widened his grin.

Maris turned in a swirl of cloak to stalk out of the stable. Dirick followed, hands clasped innocently behind his back. His long legs gave him the speed to catch up with her, and he stepped into her stride just as they came out of the stable. “Why do you nip at my heels like a starving pup?” she demanded.

“I am interested, ’tis all,” he said with all sincerity. “I was intrigued by your story this morrow about the cooper and his wife…and your gift of healing.”

Maris stopped and turned to face him full in the bailey. A huge ball of the sun peered over the wall of the courtyard, and her resulting squint was most unladylike—yet endearing—as she looked up at him. “Interested, you say?” she asked.

“Aye. I know many noble ladies, and many well landed ones such as yourself, and I have yet to meet one who stays out till all hours of the night to midwife a cooper’s woman. ’Tis true, my lady mother will see to the ills of her people, aye, and I’ve met others that do the same—but, all too often, ’tis only at their convenience.”

“People do not become ill to convenience their healers,” Maris said with disdain, those full lips flattening. “’Twas near the first thing I was taught—after which plant is deadly hemlock, of course,” she smiled at him. Her nose was red with cold and her cheeks soon to follow and she looked quite lovely as she jested with him.

He grinned down at her, suddenly light hearted for the first time since he heard the news of his father. “It was, I’m certain, an informative bit of knowledge.”

“Aye, yet not as important as creating a draught to rid one of arrogant knights who tear down upon one like a demon in the dark of night,” she said dryly, turning away and pulling up her hood to cover her shiny reddish-brown hair.

“Aye, well, I would pay well the woman who could create a draught to whittle away the tartness of a particular Lady of Langumont. I vow, my mouth puckers less at the taste of a lemon than at her wit.”

“You dare to speak of my mother in such a manner?” A little giggle escaped from her lips, and she looked up at him, her eyes dancing. “I should toss you out on your ear for taking such liberties!”

A thick strand of hair blew in her face and caught at the corner of her mouth. She brushed it away and sobered. “In truth, Sir Dirick, your sincere interest is unfamiliar to me. More oft than not, men of your ilk turn tail or the subject, rather than hear the extent of my duties at Langumont.” She brushed her heavy cloak over her torso, “And, now, ’tis well past time for me to tend to those duties. I have kept you from your own work long enough.”

“Nay, my lady, you have kept me from naught,” Dirick was quick to respond, tightening his hands deep in the warmth of his tunic. It was quite frigid on this side of the bailey, where the slightest breeze seemed to catch and swirl brazenly about.

Maris smiled. “Very well, sir. But I am off to Mass and then about my duties.” She turned to make her way toward Langumont’s tiny chapel.

“My lady.” He was in her footsteps as if pulled by a rope. She turned and he felt foolish. “Lady Maris, I do not know where the chapel is and I am in need of absolution,” he said.

She gestured him forward, “Come, then, to Mass and Father Abraham will see you after.”

“Aye, my lady, and thank you.”

Verna crept up the dim, cold steps that led to the upper chambers of the keep. The sounds of busyness from below drifted up to her keen ears. And though she listened for the sound of her mistress’s voice, she knew that Lady Maris was gone about her work in the village and would not return for several hours.

On the floor above the great hall, several chambers were set into the tall stone walls. There was Lady Allegra’s solar, where the seamstresses worked, the private chamber of the lord and lady, several smaller chambers for important guests, and, finally, Verna’s destination.

Lady Maris’s chamber was the last along the narrow, dimly lit hallway. Attached was an antechamber where Verna slept when she was not with a man, for Maris did not require that she attend her every night as Lady Allegra would.

Verna passed silently through the small antechamber, skirting the small pallet piled generously with three pillows and an array of blankets, and opened the heavy door into the main chamber.

A large bed sat in one corner, its curtains drawn back to show a thick fur coverlet and many more pillows than Verna’s meager pallet. To the left of the bed, along the wall, was the narrow slit of a window—just wide enough to pass a hand through. A second window was staggered at the other end of the room. Both slits were covered with heavy tapestries to keep the harsh winter from entering the chamber.

A fireplace carved itself into the corner opposite the windows, and a small blaze crackled within. One of Verna’s many tasks each night was to build the sparks to a roar just as her mistress mounted the steps to her chamber. A large trunk rested at the foot of the bed, and a second one acted as a table near the fireplace. A stool and a straight backed chair completed the room’s furnishings.

Verna padded across the chamber, her feet rustling through the soft rushes that covered the stone floor. She poked briefly at the fire, adding two small logs to the protesting flames, then turned to the trunk at the foot of the bed.

Kneeling, she raised the lid of the heavy wooden trunk. Inside mounded piles of silks and velvets, wools and linens of the brightest colors and the most intricate embroideries. She passed a hand slowly over them, crushing an emerald silk bliaut in her fingers. A strange curl twisted her mouth and she stood, pulling the bliaut with her. It fell in a cascade of silk to her feet. She knew the green would complement her pale blonde hair and catlike green eyes.

For a moment, she stood thus, smoothing the silk down the front of her body, imagining how she would look garbed in the riches of Lady Maris of Langumont. Then, the twist of her mouth deepening, she carefully refolded the garment and replaced it in the trunk.

Now Verna dug carefully through the piles of clothing to the very bottom of the trunk and rummaged gingerly there. Holding a candle close to the shadowy depths, she peered into the depths of the fabric, mindful of dripping wax, and at last extracted the object of her search.

It was a headdress, woven of cloth of gold that often confined Lady Maris’s thick locks during the summer months. Verna examined the snood closely in the candlelight and was pleased to find several strands of rich brown hair trapped in the intricacies of the headdress. With a small sound of satisfaction, she folded the cloth carefully and pushed it up into her sleeve.

Maris had an audience as she peeled the dressing off Raymond of Vermille’s shoulder. Her father’s squires watched closely, hoping for a sign of the gore they’d been told they’d see. Unfortunately for them—and quite happily for Sir Raymond—the green pus that had oozed from his wound a mere two days earlier was gone, and the swelling had decreased greatly.

“See you, Sir Raymond,” she began for what seemed the hundredth time, but in this case, with the intent of teaching the young boys as well, “it is no great feat to keep soil from an open cut and ’tis much easier on the skin, so it heals nicely. If you keep mashing dirt and wool and lice from your tunic into the wound, it swells greatly as the humors grow.” She was finishing with a clean wrap around his shoulder.