A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden #3)
Page 40“Come in, Lady Maris,” came the mellow voice of the queen.
Maris did as she was urged, closing the door in her wake, and taking in more of the room. A large, curtained bed hugged another wall, and was warmed by its own fireplace—it, too, filled with a roaring fire. A table littered with parchments, quills, and a pot of ink sat near the two chairs, and trunks bursting with gowns, cloaks, cups, plates, cloths, leather bags, and all types of trinkets lined the walls throughout.
“Your majesty.” Maris curtsied when she reached the edge of the luxurious floor covering.
Eleanor waved a graceful hand to an empty chair next to the table. “Sit.”
Maris’s quick glance about the room revealed that she was alone with the queen, and she wondered whether her grace’s affliction was that of a private nature. Placing her leather sack and wooden box on the floor, she did as ordered and sat, waiting.
“You may pour some wine, Lady Maris.”
Accepting this as an invitation to serve both herself and the queen, Maris filled two of the goblets with a heavy red wine. “How may I assist you?” she asked, placing a cup within Eleanor’s easy reach.
“You are well versed in healing and the use of physic herbs I am told. Your skills surpass even that of Madelyne of Mal Verne.”
Maris bowed her head in acknowledgement. “I have studied such medicines since I was ten summers.”
Reaching for her drink with long white fingers, the queen said, “Tell me how you were taught.”
A faint smile quirked Eleanor’s lips as she drank. Her blue eyes were shrewd. “I am told by a trusted friend that your skill is so great that you can bring a man—nay, a whole keep, the tale goes—near enough to death that he wishes to die, yet not so close that he does expire.”
Maris felt her face heat to what was surely dark rose in color, and she was suddenly fearful that she’d been brought here for reprimand. “I am ashamed that you should hear of my expertise in such a sorry way. ’Tis not the way I was taught—”
Eleanor laughed. “Do you not apologize, Maris, as I am of the mind to reward a woman—not reprimand her—when she rises to an occasion to save herself! Does the Church not say that God helps those who help themselves?” She reached for a piece of cheese. “I am one to espouse such actions if the end justifies the means.” She chuckled again. “It would have been an interesting sight to see an entire keep laid low whilst yourself and your maidservant tripped blithely over the drawbridge.”
“It was a more memorable moment in my history,” Maris admitted with a wry smile, “though I would never choose the words ‘tripping blithely’ to describe our hasty departure.” She took a sip of wine, wondering that Dirick had such familiarity with the queen that he should tell her of his own misfortune. ’Twas a testament to his own cocksureness that he would freely share of an event in which he was bested by a woman. “My lady, how may I assist you?”
“’Tis a minor affliction, Lady Maris—naught but an ache to my ear. I often have the same complaint during the winter months, and most often, the leeches or physicians direct me to soak my feet in a bath of hot water with ground mustard seeds.” She settled back into her chair, her gaze direct upon Maris whilst her fingers stroked the tassel of her girdle. “‘Tis not the most convenient treatment and I but search for another answer to this illness.”
Maris nodded her head in understanding. She found it not at all surprising that the beautiful and regal Eleanor of Aquitaine would not wish to do something as ungainly as to soak her bare feet, particularly among her ladies and courtiers. “Tell me, does the pain in your ear feel like the beat of a drum, or more like a sharp pinch of pain?”
“’Tis most like the beat of a drum, far inside my ear.”
“Is it accompanied with a sound like the peal of a bell as well?”
“Nay.”
“And, tell me, your majesty, have you any other complaints at the same time you have this ache of the ear?”
Maris rose. “With your permission, I’ll prepare a remedy that will be easily and discreetly administered, and mayhap even decrease the frequency of the affliction.”
Eleanor nodded, watching with hawk eyes as Maris delved into her leather satchel, and then into the smooth wooden box. She withdrew a small knife, a small, empty bottle with a tight cork stopper, a second, larger bottle, and a fruit that looked like a small, bulging onion. Watching Maris peel the crisp, white skin from the onion, Eleanor asked, “Is that not a garlic?”
“Aye,” Maris looked up in surprise. “’Tis not a common fruit here in England, though it is popular near the Holy Lands. Other healers I haven spoke with complain of its rank smell, though I rather like it. It has many uses aside of which I will show you today.”
“I have seen it on my own Crusade to the Holy Land,” the queen told her as Maris used the little knife to crush then chop a clove of garlic. A pungent smell pervaded the room.
Maris adjusted her long sleeve and reached for the large bottle. “Your majesty, I’ll pour a small amount of this oil over the chopped garlic in a small vial. You should pour a tiny drop of this oil into the ear which pains you one time in the morning, and one time in the evening until the ache is gone.” She scraped the chopped garlic into the smaller bottle, then added a generous amount of oil. Using the cork to stop the vial, she shook it briskly, then offered it to the queen.
“Thank you, my dear,” Eleanor took the bottle, studied it, then set it upon the table next to her.
Expecting to be dismissed, Maris gathered up her equipment and packed it away.
Thus, the queen’s words took her by surprise. “Dirick of Derkland speaks well of you, Lady Maris.”
Unable to control the color that once more rose in her face, Maris kept her attention on the silken cord she wrapped around her wooden box. Her fingers became clumsy and would not cooperate as she sought to tie the knot. She did not know how to respond to the queen. Indeed, she was not altogether sure that Eleanor required a response.
It seemed that she did not. “Are you promised, Lady Maris?”
Eleanor steepled her fingers. “Very good. I thank you for your service. Payment shall be rendered to you.” She smiled. “You may go.”
Maris pushed back her hood, letting the spring breeze caress her face. She tilted her face toward the sun, eyes closed. It felt heavenly to be out of the dark castle and away from the busy, smelly streets of London.
Hickory nickered next to her, as if to agree with her mistress’s unspoken thoughts. They were wading through the tall grass of a meadow just outside of the city, harvesting herbs to replenish the ones Maris had used throughout the winter. Sir Raymond of Vermille, along with three other men at arms from Langumont, stood in the road at the edge of the meadow, idly watching over his mistress.
Pleased to see that the bright blue chicory was already blooming, Maris pulled several plants from the soil, shaking dirt from the heavy roots. They were sturdy plants with bristly leaves and finely haired stems and were good for many uses. She cut the roots and wrapped them in thick cotton sleeves to later be brewed into a light tonic, then stuffed the leaves into a different cotton bag. The leaves were useless when dried, so fresh ones were always of value when available.
She strolled further across the meadow, toward a smattering of trees where she suspected raspberry bushes grew. Those leaves created the best tea, along with peppermint, for breeding women. The tea eased nausea and helped the babe root itself firmly inside the mother. As she reached the line of shade from tall oak trees with branches that spread across the sky, she noticed the shiny, dark green leaves and pale pink buds of a familiar herb.
Maris stopped, crouching in the cluster of the ground covering plant, and stilled her hands. Bearberry, the leaves of which she and Sir Dirick had gathered one chill winter afternoon. The scene, with all of its vibrant color, had imprinted itself upon her memory: she’d been clutching those thick, padded leaves, and he’d tossed the bright red berries over the snow before drawing her to his mouth for the warmth of a first kiss.
A pang of heat hummed through her as she remembered the sweetness and fire of that meeting of mouths…and how on later occasions the demands of his lips had coaxed a more compelling response, her limbs becoming liquid and her heart thudding heavily in her breast. Drawing a shaky breath, Maris plucked a few leaves, running her calloused finger over their smoothness.
Try as she might, as furious as she might be with him, Sir Dirick’s face and presence had not been far from her mind since…aye, since the eve he’d nearly trampled her with his prized destrier. She lowered her rump to the ground, sitting surrounded by tall grasses and shaded by the oak trees. Her fingers were busy, tearing the leaves into halves and pulling the petals from the flower buds, even as her thoughts rambled through the range of emotions he evoked in her: anger at his complicity with Bon de Savrille…warmth and passion from his kisses…laughter and smiles from their bantering in the stables…and, increasingly, an unsettling fear for the depth of her emotions, from her inability to forget Dirick for more than a short time.
Was it possible? Could she love him?
Maris closed her eyes tightly, trying to block away the unwelcome thought. Even if she did—God in heaven!—love him, even if it were true, there was naught she could do about it. Her life and lands belonged to King Henry to do with as he would. He’d never bestow the well landed heiress of Langumont upon a mere knight—no matter how much Dirick amused him.