A Whisper Of Rosemary

“Aye. Then I shall have time to settle and learn my way of the court. I hope to have chambers within and near the other ladies.” Maris’s attention was drawn to a vendor dressed in unusual garb: dusty, draping clothing and a headdress of cloth wound around his head and face. He reminded her of Good Venny, for he had the same dark skin and her mentor had worn similar clothing. The man’s wares did not interest her, but the small furry creature that perched on his shoulder caused her to rein in Hickory for a closer look. “Sir Raymond, look you at that creature!”



The knight paused beside his mistress, “Aye, my lady. ’Tis called a monkey and comes from afar, mayhap from Jerusalem itself.”



The other men at arms drew themselves near Maris and Raymond, causing a large blockage of the street. “My lady,” Sir Raymond said, attempting to pull her attention from the creature that held her fascination, “let us go on to the castle. We can return to the market when you wish, and, I vow, you’ll see more than a mere monkey.”



Maris nodded in agreement. She could gawk and stare at the sights of London Town at another time. Now, alas, she must heed Sir Raymond and proceed onward.



The party gained entrance within the bailey walls of Westminster, and Sir Raymond helped Maris alight from her mount. Inside the castle, of which the great hall had been built by William the Conquerer himself, the steward greeted the Lady of Langumont and directed her to the chambers she would inhabit near the other wards of the king.



“Ward of the king,” Maris muttered to herself, her full lips flattening into a frown. ’Twas the first time she’d realized the reality of her new position, and its implications shook her composure.



She followed a page through the intricate hallways of the castle, suddenly aware of how different her life could become. The king’s ward was his to do with as he wished, to marry to whomever he desired a political alliance with, or give as a reward to a faithful vassal. He could even, Maris realized, require that she remain a permanent member of the royal court until such time as he chose to bestow her person—nay, her lands—upon some greedy lord that was not of her choosing.



Yet….Her heart’s pounding slowed its breakneck pace. She was already betrothed, she was safe from that—was she not? If her papa had signed the betrothal contract, it would be no easy task for even the King of England to go against the Church and annul a betrothal agreement, even though no betrothal vows had been spoken.



Since Papa’s death, neither Victor nor Michael d’Arcy had come to Langumont nor sent any messages. Maris, enveloped with grief over her loss, and further distracted by the failing health of her mother, had hardly given it any thought. In fact, she’d considered it a boon of good fortune not to have to face her betrothed and her father. But now, she wondered on it.



Had the d’Arcys left the Langumont women alone to their grief? Had they needed to return to their own lands, and would return after some time had passed?



It mattered not to Maris, just so long as she didn’t see Victor d’Arcy. In an ironic sort of way, it was a good position in which she found herself: she was betrothed and thus not free to any other single man, but not yet wed. And her future husband was not there to order her about.



The page stopped at a large oaken door, drawing Maris from her unpleasant labyrinth of thoughts. She realized she had no idea how they’d come through the twisting halls of the castle to these chambers and turned questioningly to the page.



Before she could speak, the young boy said, “Here is your chamber. Your maid and trunks will be brought to you, my lady. When you wish to go to the hall for dinner, you have only to send for me or another of the pages and we will happily guide you within.” And then, with a little bow, he was gone.



Some time later, Maris smoothed the cloth of gold fabric of her wimple and swallowed hard. She hadn’t realized she’d feel so nervous before seeing the king—and her trepidation was heightened by the fact that she’d barely received the trunks in her chambers when Henry summoned her to his presence.



She could hardly believe the king had found time to see her so soon upon her arrival, and Maris couldn’t help but fear the reason for it.



The page who brought the message from His Majesty was not the one who’d escorted her only an hour earlier. He was slightly older than his predecessor—mayhap nine or ten years—and he wore his dignity about him like a bishop.



Despite her nervousness, Maris bade him wait in the hallway whilst she and Agnes tried frantically to make her presentable enough to appear in the royal presence. She had no time for the benefit of a bath to wash the dirt from travel, nor the opportunity to press the wrinkles from her gowns. As it was, apprehension spurred Maris to leave the chambers with her hair still merely braided and her traveling shoes still upon her feet.



Now, waiting just on the other side of the door leading to Henry’s court chamber, she regretted her haste. The wimple covered her simple braid, but the toes of her shoes were stained and worn and peeped from beneath the skirts of her best gown. The gown itself would do (although the brief glimpses Maris had seen of other ladies of the court told her that it was seriously out of fashion), for the fabric was a brilliant gold that shimmered as she moved, with long sleeves that opened nearly to the ground at her wrists. A dark red overtunic, complementing the garnets that she wore in a heavy necklet, fitted over the gown and displayed the talents of the seamstresses at Langumont, who’d labored over its gold and green embroidery for days. The gown had been intended for her betrothal ceremony and, in spite of its out-of-date style, was certainly fit for meeting her king.



Maris was just beginning to fidget nervously when the doors opened and yet another page gestured for her to enter. Standing regally, although her heart was pounding, Maris followed him into the room, praying that her knees would not give away.



Henry stood directly to her left near a large, gilt chair. He was a handsome man, she thought to herself, with his reddish hair and muscular build. Maris drew near, noting that the chamber was empty of people other than the king and the page who’d summoned her.



“My liege,” she murmured, sweeping into a full curtsey before him with her forehead nearly to the ground. Her skirts pooled around her and she covertly adjusted them to cover her shoes.



“Maris of Langumont.” The king’s voice was booming but kind. She could almost hear a smile in its timbre as he continued, “Rise, child, I’ve long waited to meet the daughter of the fine Merle of Langumont.”



Though he was a mere four years her elder, somehow it was appropriate that the stunning, powerful man before her call her ‘child.’ “Thank you, your grace,” Maris told him as she pulled lightly to her feet. “I’ve long wished to meet you as well, sire,” she said, emboldened by the warmth in his blue eyes.



“We were aggrieved to hear of your father’s demise,” Henry told her in his regal voice. “’Twas unfortunate that one of my most loyal vassals should die in an attempt to retrieve his kidnapped daughter. And in such a tragic manner.”



“Aye, your grace.” Maris’s voice was shamefully unsteady. “My father was well loved and ’tis a tragedy that he should be felled by a wild arrow during my rescue, most especially since I had already made my escape.”



“Ah, yes,” Henry nodded. “Most unfortunate, my dear Maris. Yet, I understand you were quite enterprising to have made your own escape.” Before she could respond, he beckoned to the shadows. “Well, Dirick, now you have seen that indeed the lady lives. Are you well satisfied?”



Maris froze. Her disbelief turned to mortification and annoyance as the figure stepping from a dark corner metamorphosed into the familiar person of Dirick de Arlande. The blood drained from her face and she felt a pounding in her temple take its place. Clenching her fists into the folds of her skirt, she turned to the king.



“With respect, my lord,” she said, keeping her eyes from the man who drew near the throne, “you harbor a traitor in these chambers.”



“Traitor?” Henry’s fine red eyebrows rose in question. “Treason is a very serious charge, my lady. Are you certain?”



“Aye, your majesty.” Maris darted an angry glance at Dirick, then returned her attention to the king. “’Tis this man who plotted with my captor after lulling my father into complacence during his stay at Langumont.”



The barest hint of a smile playing about his lips, Henry turned. “Dirick, what say you to these accusations?”



“My liege.” Dirick’s voice was easy, but laced with a hint of annoyance. “You are as well aware as I that I was at Breakston at your behest and became accidentally entangled in this nightmare.”



Maris gasped at such a bald faced lie. Whirling to face him, she countered, “Sir Dirick, how then do you explain your stay at Langumont if it were not to plot against myself and my father?”



“It may come as an enlightenment to you, Lady Maris, but the entire kingdom does not revolve about you in its every working,” Sir Dirick said, again in that mellow, smooth voice that made her want to shriek in frustration. “I hope you are not too overset to learn that I had other reasons for availing myself of your father’s hospitality than aught in regard to your fair person.”



“And what was I to think, then, when you were one of the gawkers at whose feet I was cast by my abductors? You, who made no move to assist me, even to the extent of breaking into my chamber—”



“Lady Maris, I do not believe this conversation need continue here.” Dirick’s mellow voice carried a hint of warning.



She drew herself up, suddenly aware that she stood shrieking like a harpy in the king’s chambers. Her cheeks warmed. “Well said, Sir Dirick,” she lowered her eyes as mortification swept over her. “I have no wish to continue this conversation at any other time,” she muttered to herself.



“I beg your pardon, my lady?” asked Henry, the trace of a smile still lingering.



“It was of no import, my liege,” she said with a small curtsey.