A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3)

“Excellent.” Maris smiled complacently. “How does our guard seem to be faring? ’Tis he who concerns me the most…besides my lord Bon.”

“Sir Dirick has not become ill yet, though from the very look on his face, verily he will be reaching for a chamberpot soon.”

“Or rushing for the garderobe.” Maris stifled a giggle.

“What did you put in the food, my lady?”

“’Tis a plant called broom,” she explained. “’Twas all good fortune, really, Agnes, for one of the old brooms in the kitchen had bristles made from the plant. The dried branches, with leaves and flowers, may be steeped and used for medicinal purposes. Yet, my mentor, Good Venny, always warned that ’tis an herb that must be used with care, for it has great power. It causes the body to—ah—dispose of its contents in a violent manner. Though it won’t kill them, it will likely cause more than one to wish for death. It was a much better choice than elder bark, which I had thought to use until I saw the broom.”

“Do you not think Lord Bon will suspect ’twas you that poisoned the meal?” asked Agnes.

Maris rose from her prone position on the bed. “Nay, for I told him that the meat stank, and that mayhap some of it was prepared for supper. Then, I made myself sick upon Sir Dirick’s fine leather boots.” She drew the tattered tapestry back from the window slit, noting with satisfaction that the sun had nearly set. “Is all in readiness?”

“Aye. I have hidden the foodstuffs I purchased in the village with your ring, my lady, and a mount awaits us near the hidden entrance to the keep.”

Maris turned in surprise, delight spanning her face. “A mount, you say? Agnes, how on earth…?”

“The stable master bears no love for Lord Bon, my lady, and ’twas no great feat to convince him that I plan to escape with a lover now that my lord has found a bride!”

“Very well, then. ’Tis nigh time that we should leave.” She scrabbled through a trunk and pulled a large leather pouch from its depths. Inside were two heavy cloaks she’d found in the piles of clothing Bon had made available to her, as well as a dagger she’d sneaked into her sleeve earlier that day.

As the two women moved toward the heavy door, they heard a loud groan from without. Maris looked at Agnes and carefully opened the door.

Dirick was doubled up on the floor, his face pasty with pain and glistening with sweat. When he heard the oaken door creak open, he struggled to sit, but the pain that wracked his abdomen had obviously weakened him. There was a pool of vomit nearby, proving that he had not chosen to leave his post when the sickness struck.

Maris tried to slip past him, but Dirick gathered enough strength to snatch under the hem of her gown and grasp her ankle. “You are not ill!” he grated, comprehension in his face. “By God, woman, you have done this!”

Agnes hurried past, but Maris, still caught by the ankle and not wishing to make a great disturbance, struggled to free herself. “I had no choice,” she told him, confident that he was too weak to stop them. Indeed, his strong arm trembled with the effort to hold her and she saw a ripple of pain cross his face. “Papa would not be here soon enough.” With her other foot, she kicked at his hand, but his grip did not loosen. “Release me,” she hissed, bending to claw at the arm that held her firm.

Dirick’s other hand shot up to grab her wrist. “Have you poisoned me, then?” his eyes glittered. “Have you poisoned the whole keep in your haste to escape?” He could barely force the words forth and he yanked her down to her knees next to his prone body.

Her face was nearly in his, and her long hair caught in the sweat on his cheek. For a moment, a brief instant, regret washed over her that he should be in such pain because of her doing.

Then sanity reigned, and she pulled with all of her strength. Dirick, weakened beyond measure, could not hold her and she came free, tumbling backward onto the floor. Scrambling to her feet, taking care to pull her skirts out of reach from his fingers, she stared down at him as a spasm shook his body. He groaned aloud, breathing a foul curse as his arms crossed over his belly as if to hold the pain at bay.

“Witch….” The word was more a breath than a curse.

Gathering her skirts and the leather pouch, Maris forced herself to turn from the agonized man and hurry to the steps in Agnes’s wake.

Then she stopped, whirling at the top. “You are not poisoned,” she told him. “I am a healer, do you not forget. All will be well ere the morn. Adieu, Sir Dirick, and mark you well: though I doubt to see your deceitful face again, if I do, I shall see you pay for this treatment of my person!”

With that, she whirled again and hurried down the narrow stone steps, leaving him in a heap behind her.

The last thing Dirick remembered before he succumbed to the pain was Maris’s caustic words.

And that defiant threat was the first thing to come to mind when he regained his faculties many hours later. He knew it was much later because a stream of light came up the stairs, indicating that it was daylight.

Struggling to his feet with the rough wall as his prop, Dirick tried to swallow to moisten his bone dry throat. He’d lost count of how many times he’d vomited and otherwise expelled the contents of his body through the night. From the stench that greeted him as he made his way to the steps, others afflicted with Maris’s poison had not found their way to a garderobe either.

Cursing the woman who’d caused this havoc, Dirick carefully picked his way down the stairs, leaning heavily against the wall. If he could sit a horse, he and Nick would be out of this bloody place and on the trail of Maris and her maid as soon as he could walk to the stable.

In the great hall, prone bodies strewn about bespoke of the effects of whatever Maris had done to the food. Even the dogs were in heaps amongst the men. Dirick tried to swallow again and managed to choke up enough saliva for his throat to convulse. It made a harsh, grating sound.

Nary a soul stirred as he picked his way toward the outside entrance to the hall, bent on reaching the fresh air. Dirick wondered, fleetingly, if Maris and Agnes had actually made it safely past the guards at the drawbridge…and then he dismissed the question. Of course the woman had succeeded—every man in the place had been incapacitated, thanks to her meddling.

His empty stomach roiled painfully, and he cursed Maris. Again.

Out in the crisp, cold air, the fog lifted from his head and he felt stronger. The bailey was relatively quiet—some of the men-at-arms were stirring, groaning and complaining about their sickness of the night before—and even the guards posted at the drawbridge sat slumped against the crenellated walls.

God’s blood, he thirsted!

Dirick bent heavily to scoop a mass of clean snow to his mouth. The wet coldness felt like life to his cracked lips and swollen tongue. Another handful followed, and then another, and then he realized that he was hungry.

Maris had been right. She had said all would be well ere morning. There had been a time, many times, during the night when he’d doubted her words, certain that he’d be standing before God before long.

His stomach roiled again, this time indicating its emptiness. He turned to make his way back to the hall—’twould be best not to leave with an aching belly, but froze in his tracks at the sound of a bellow from within. Weak though the shout was, Dirick recognized Bon and what must be his fury at the disappearance of his bride.

Making a swift, prudent decision, he swung back to his path toward the stables, hobbling as quickly as possible to their refuge. Once inside, he wasted no time finding Nick, and, slipping the bit into the destrier’s willing mouth, Dirick vaulted onto his back, sans saddle.

The shouts from the hall were getting louder, spilling out into the bailey, and he knew he’d be hard pressed to make his escape now. Weakness made his knees tremble and his head light, but he forced himself to keep his mind clear and to find a way to get out of Breakston.

Nick was eager to go, and Dirick gave him his head once out of the stable. The scene in the bailey was one of chaos: men stumbling to their feet, sluggish and bewildered. Bon stood in the doorway of the hall, screaming orders, even as he leaned heavily against a feeble Edwin.

As the only man ahorse, Dirick immediately caught Bon’s attention and was the recipient of an enraged bellow. Wheeling Nick, Dirick gathered all of his bravado and urged the stallion to the Lord of Breakston.

“My lord,” he gasped as if in a hurry, “I caught sight of them over the hill yonder!” He gestured in a northeasterly direction, realizing in the back of his mind that he actually had no idea in which direction they’d gone, and hoping that he wasn’t sending the forces onto their trail. “I’ll catch them! Send after me!”

Without waiting for an acknowledgement, and praying that Bon would accept his actions and not order arrows to be loosed at his back, Dirick kicked Nick and let him go. Men jumped from their path, rightfully wary of the fierce destrier, who, true to his nature, sensed a battle to come.

Bon screamed in his wake—what words, Dirick did not care to find out—and some of the men tried to spring their weakened bodies to action. None dared grab at the destrier, however, and man and horse easily plowed through them. The men at the drawbridge were just reaching for the winches to lower the portcullis when Nick and Dirick tore past them, kicking up snow and narrowly missing a clumsy man.

Dirick bent low over his mount’s neck, urging him on. The hair stood at his nape as he waited for a shower of arrows to engulf them. The ragged drawbridge began to rise slowly as they thundered across, but Nick, who had not been ill, made a beautiful, flying leap. They soared easily to the ground on the far side of the moat.

The first arrow landed in the crusty snow not far from them and Dirick cursed. Glancing back, he saw the drawbridge lowering again and was just in time to duck when a cross bolt whizzed past his head. “Aye, Nick, go! Go!”

The arrows were falling further behind, and the men swarming over the bridge were not moving with enough energy to pose a threat. Dirick saw the haven of the forest ahead and knew he’d succeeded in putting Breakston behind him.