“How quickly could you create a pin with my lord’s standard upon it?” she asked the smith.
The man frowned and ventured, “In six days, mayhap, my lady.”
She shook her head. “Half again as much if you can deliver it to me by Sunday morn.”
Obviously unwilling to the let opportunity pass him by, the smith considered briefly, then agreed. Maris dug out her leather pouch to give him an initial payment. When she pulled two silver coins from its depths, her dagger tumbled out onto the ground.
The smith stooped to retrieve it for her and made a little sound of delight. “Ah! Such a lovely piece. I’ve not seen this work for many a year, my lady!”
Instantly, her attention left the coins and focused on him. “You know of this work?”
“Aye. ’Tis the skill of Frederick of Gladwythe.”
“Where might one find this Frederick?” she asked, knowing that Dirick would demand the same information if he were present.
The smith shrugged. “My lady, I’ve not seen the man for five or six summers. He may be dead for all I know, as I’ve not seen any of his work for that long. He was not a young man.”
Maris dug an extra coin from her purse. “If you recall anything more about him, or where he might be found, do you send word to me, Maris of Langumont, or my betrothed husband, Dirick of Ludingdon. ’Tis a matter of life and death.”
He accepted the third coin with alacrity. “Aye, my lady. That I will do. And I will see that your husband’s pin is delivered to you by Sunday matins.”
“I thank you, good sir.” She bid him a good day and returned to Raymond and her other companions with a new bounce in her step. On their wedding day, she would have two presents for her husband.
Because the streets were so crowded, the party did not mount their horses. They were ambling along, the urgency of the trip now gone, when a loud noise behind them drew their attention.
A heavy cart was speeding down the narrow street in their direction, bouncing pell mell behind two heavy horses. Screams and shouts rang through the air, and passersby jumped out of the way.
The cart narrowly missed the stall where Maris’s goldsmith was and trundled along without pause. As the crowd surged and ebbed, frantic to escape the runaway cart, Maris became separated from her party.
“Lady!” Raymond shouted when he saw the horses running straight at her.
She tried to duck out of the way, but the cart changed direction, following her as she dodged off the street. It rumbled along in her wake, tearing stalls from their moorings and knocking displays from their tables, gaining proximity as she stumbled down an alley.
Her lungs hurt and her leg ached where she tripped against the side of a stall, but Maris did not stop. The cart came closer, the noise barreling behind her like the rush of a huge wave, and she knew she would not come out of this alive.
Suddenly, as the alley opened onto a wide street, she spied the stone enclosure of a public well. Heading for it, she said a quick prayer. Maris grabbed the heavy wooden framework that supported a large bucket and jumped up and out of the way of the cart.
The cart stormed by, leaving dust in its wake, then disappeared down a side street.
Raymond ran up, his face tight with fear, exclaiming, “Lady, lady, are you all right?”
Shaken, Maris clambered down from her perch on the side of the well. Though she knew her eyes were huge, belaying her fright, she spoke calmly, “Aye, I am unhurt but for my leg.” She looked down at her torn, dirty gown, and knew that her hair, which had come unveiled during the chase, hung in sagging braids and straggles down her back. Discreetly, she lifted her skirt to examine her bloody, bruised leg.
Rufus, one of the other men-at-arms, brought Hickory to her and assisted Maris into the saddle. Her leg pained her and her head felt light, but she was determined to ride back to Westminster on her own accord.
They were nearly to the castle when they were met by a small company of men carrying the standard of Dirick of Ludingdon. Dirick himself rode at the forefront, and drew up his reins at the approach of the men from Langumont and its mistress.
“Ho!” he called, separating from his men to ride up to Maris’s side. His eyes widened at her disheveled appearance. “Maris! What has befallen you?”
She brushed a grimy hand over her face. “Naught but a near miss by a cart. ’Twas a runaway that got loose in the marketplace and I fell while trying to evade it.”
His lips tightened. “You did not tell me you were going to London. I would have been your escort had I known.”
Maris bristled even as she felt Raymond stiffen beside her. “My men are more than an adequate escort for me, my lord, and I will visit the market when I will, with or without your permission.”
Dirick’s face became empty of emotion. He reached over and took the reins from her hands, then led Hickory and her mistress away from the group of men. It wasn’t until he looked down at her that she realized she’d never seen him that cold and angry.
“I did not demand that you ask my permission to visit the market, Maris,” he said in a carefully emotionless voice. “However, you will never again speak to me in that manner in the presence of my men or your men. I was concerned only for your safety, as you are still unwed and a desirable match for any man—and from the look of your clothing, I can see that I was right to think so.”
With that, he turned and rejoined the party of men-at-arms, leaving Maris to follow him.
“Sir Raymond,” Dirick said, trying to force his anger to subside, “ride with me if you please. The rest of you, see that my lady returns to Westminster without acquiring anymore dirt on her face.”
Raymond approached him with a set look on his freckled countenance. Dirick shielded his hand against the beaming sun so that he could look him full in the eye. “Do you not look at me with such fury, man. I did meant no insult to you—’tis only that I wish to be told of my wife’s whereabouts in the future.” He raised his hand to stop the other man from speaking. “Nay, ’tis not your task to inform me. ’Tis a courtesy I request of my wife. Verily, Raymond, I can think of no other man that I’d want to escort my lady, with the exception of myself, than you. Truly.”
The other man seemed to accept his apology. “My lord, I thank you for your trust in me. I’ve served Langumont for greater than a score winters, and I will continue to serve my lady Maris until such time as she does not wish me around.”
Dirick nodded, recognizing that the man, while not combative, was also clearly delineating his loyalty—to Maris over that of Dirick. Such impertinence could have annoyed him further, but Dirick knew better. The safety of Maris was of paramount importance to both of them, and therefore, their intentions would be thus be aligned. “Verily, Raymond, and as you serve her, you serve me as well. And I must tell you that I am not so greatly pleased that you should take your service so seriously that you would rid her of an unwanted husband—”
“Lord Dirick,” the other man interrupted, a shameful look shadowing his face, “I meant naught—”
“Nay, do you not apologize. You meant only to protect your lady as any man should, particularly from the likes of Victor d’Arcy. However, as I am now her betrothed, I would take it as a personal affront should you attempt to rid her of my presence.” He allowed a bit of humor to light his eyes, even as he kept his voice commanding.
Raymond smiled with obvious relief. “Thank you, my lord, and you can be certain I shall take your words to heart as I know full well you can beat me at swordplay.”
“Not without much effort and a little luck,” he told him, remembering their mock battle at Langumont. “Now, tell me what passed this day in the market.”
Raymond sobered. “’Twas not a runaway, my lord, I should stake my honor on it.”
Dirick drew up in his saddle. “What say you, man?”
“It was no accident, my lord. The cart did not slow, and the horses did not act as though they were crazed…it seemed as though the driver urged them on. And,” he looked behind as if to see how far back was Maris, “it followed her when she ran down an alleyway.” He described how she had escaped from the cart.
Dirick swore, cold fear rushing over him. Someone had tried to kill Maris. She had nearly died. The blood drained from his head, rushing to throb at the ends of his limbs. “You did not see the driver to recognize him?”
Raymond shook his head. “Nay, my lord, he wore a helm pulled low and a mantle about his face. There were no markings on his clothing or on the cart.”
Taking a deep breath, Dirick looked up at the sky and offered a prayer of thanksgiving. Then he looked at Raymond. “I will investigate, and I would welcome any assistance you might give me. In the mean while, do you double your guard about her, especially when I am not near, and let us not tell her of our suspicions as yet. She will only argue or disregard them.”
With a grim smile, Raymond nodded.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Two days.
Maris had two days until she was to wed Dirick of Ludingdon.
The thought had driven her from the chamber, where she badgered the seamstresses who worked diligently on her gown, into the courtyard near the queen’s apartments. She was alone with her thoughts and sank onto a stone bench in the corner of the square garden.
An oak tree spread shady limbs over her perch, and a small forsythia bush burst with sprays of yellow flowers. Maris idly watched as a bee nipped into a blossom, then out, skipping over the expanse of the tree, buzzing happily all the while.
Dirick had not been far from her mind in the last days, though she’d only seen him briefly when they met upon the road from London. She’d angered and embarrassed him in front of his men and her men, yet he’d done naught but give her a brief, pointed warning.
She sighed and broke a twig from the forsythia. Fingering the soft, tender blossoms, she closed her eyes. In two days’ time, she’d belong to him…and though she’d fought the idea of marriage long enough, somehow she’d come to accept—nay, she must be truthful if only to herself—come to welcome that she would be Dirick’s wife.