Nay, not to him. Her silent plea to God was instinctive, if not selfish, and Maris took a small step backward in her confusion, jostling the priest.

“Lady Monique of Trysdon is hereby promised to Lord Bartholemew d’Ausignan.”

A wave of relief swept over Maris, but was instantly usurped by a light headed faintness when her name was called. She steeled her features to show no emotion as she stepped toward the king, her gaze brushing over Queen Eleanor, who sat with a satisfied smile behind him. Maris gave a little curtsey, then straightened, swallowing the lump in her throat as she awaited her fate.

“Lady Maris of Langumont is hereby promised to the Baron of Ludingdon and Fairhold.”

There was a pause as the audience digested the announcement, and then, as exclamations of confusion and surprise erupted, a loud voice shouted, “The lady is already promised!”

Voices quieted as Michael d’Arcy pushed his way through the crowd, followed closely by his son. “The lady is promised!” his voice rang loudly into the sudden stillness.

Maris’s heart thudded in her chest and her limbs prickled with tension. Though she had no knowledge of the Baron of Ludingdon, verily he was a more desirable groom than the one who now stood at the base of the dais in his father’s shadow. She prayed that was so.

Henry looked down at the d’Arcys, raising his brows. “What say you, man? The lady is promised?”

“Your majesty, the lady’s father, Merle of Langumont, entered into a betrothal contract between his daughter and my son, Lord Victor d’Arcy.”

The king stroked his beard. “And can you produce the contracts to verify your claim?”

From his place in the crowd, Dirick could see a glitter of humor in the king’s grey eyes. Through his numbness, he wondered what game Henry played, even as he was desperate to learn who this Baron of Ludingdon was.

Who was to have Maris?

Who was the man?

Michael d’Arcy was speaking. “The contracts were drawn up but the lady was spirited away before they could be finalized. Lord Merle was slain during her rescue. But there are many witnesses to the lord’s intent, for ‘twas announced to the people of Langumont.”

“And ’tis your claim that the contract should be honored though it was not signed?” Henry glared down at the man before him.

Maris had been still throughout the exchange, and now Dirick saw her move as if to speak. Henry must have sensed the same, and he turned to her. “Lady Maris, what have you to say of this? Do you wish to pursue his claim of betrothal?”

“Your grace, I did not see the betrothal contracts of which Lord d’Arcy speaks,” her voice was steady, “but ’tis true that my father announced such an intention.” A grin of satisfaction creased Michael’s face, broadening with her next words. “But, my lord, ’tis my intent to abide by my father’s last wishes before his untimely demise.”

Coldness swept over Dirick. She’d honor the betrothal! The bitter tang of disappointment touched his tongue, and he swallowed back a retort of frustration. He almost missed the small smile touching her lips as she bent her head demurely. What game was she playing now?

The king shot Maris a glance, giving a slight nod and a matching smile. Sensing some undercurrent between the two, Dirick renewed his attention as Henry spoke. “Ah, aye, my lady. We, too, intend to honor the final wishes of our faithful vassal.”

Michael started to speak, confident that he’d won the battle. The king cut him off, producing a curling parchment sheet. “We have a missive writ in the hand of Lord Merle of Langumont, to ourselves, on the thirteenth day of this January. This letter, scribed as he prepared to besiege the castle where Lady Maris was held, repudiates the intended betrothal contract between his daughter, Maris, and Lord Victor d’Arcy.”

“Nay!” shrieked Michael d’Arcy in surprise, echoing his son’s shocked exclamation.

Henry looked down his nose at the furious man. “We assure you, ’tis true,” he said regally. “The contracts were not signed, and the lord recants his decision to betrothe Lady Maris to Lord Victor.”

The bishop nodded in agreement and Michael and Victor had no choice but to retreat.

Henry raised his gaze from the angry men, casting it about the chamber. The rising noise subsided when he lifted his hand. “Lady Maris of Langumont is hereby promised to the Baron of Ludingdon and Fairhold,” he repeated his earlier decree. “That is a title has been undesignated since the baron’s death without issue for some moons. This day, Dirick of Derkland shall swear fealty to us in that name of Baron of Ludingdon and Fairhold.”

Dirick felt a rush of blood to his face as shock numbed his body. His head snapped up to meet the king’s gaze and the twinkle of mischief in those pale blue eyes, and, dazed with his sudden good fortune, Dirick moved toward the dais. A barony! He’d been awarded a barony!

And Maris.

Stepping eagerly onto the altar, he could not keep back a grin. “Your majesty, you honor me beyond my belief! ’Tis my greatest pleasure to pledge my loyalty to you and your heirs.” Though intent upon the king’s presence, Dirick could not keep from flashing a glance at Maris. His look at her was brief, but her pale, wide eyed face, stony with shock, impaled its impression on his mind. She looked as though her death knell had been rung.

He could attend to that anon, but for now, he returned his attention to Henry. Kneeling on one knee before his sovereign, Dirick took the bone of St. Peter into his hands and swore his vassalage to the king with strong, steady words.

When he rose from his knees, Dirick found himself facing Maris. Her gaze was so cold and blank that he nearly shivered. Of necessity, he kept his face devoid of emotion as the bishop stepped between them to administer the betrothal vows.

Maris’s small, cold, scratched hand was placed in Dirick’s larger one, her skin pale next to the brown roughness of his fingers. He repeated the vows with a clear, strong voice as he studied her inclined head. As he spoke, a rush of energy shot through him. She was to be his.

“And to thee I plight my troth,” Maris’s voice uttering the words that would make her his brought his attention back to the present. She withdrew her fingers from him as soon as she finished reciting her promise.

They stood side-by-side, arms brushing sleeve to sleeve, as the other couples cited their betrothal vows. Dirick felt Maris’s unyielding stiffness next to him and he was overwhelmed with the sudden yearning to gather her into his arms and kiss her into a malleable handful of woman. He’d coax away any reservations she might have.

Henry announced that the wedding ceremonies would take place on Sunday next—four days hence—and that the betrothal contracts would be prepared within two days. With that, he dismissed the crowd.

“Felicitations, Lord Dirick,” purred a voice behind him.

He turned to find the queen with a complacent smile on her face. “Your majesty,” he kissed her hand, suddenly realizing his debt to her.

“Look you here,” she spoke, resting a possessive hand on his forearm, “in the space of one morn, you are entitled, enfeofed, and engaged to be married to a well landed heiress!” Her eyes danced with pleasure and mischief.

“My lady, I have never met a more fortunate man—with the great exception of your husband,” he said with all sincerity.

The teasing left her eyes to be replaced by earnestness. “As you have served us well, ’tis well deserved. I wish happiness for you and your lady.”

“I thank you with all of my heart.” He kissed her hand again, and turned to confront Maris. She was gone. He whirled back to an amused Eleanor.

“Have you lost your wife so soon?” the queen teased, tucking her hand into the crook of her husband’s elbow. “She’ll be quite the challenge for you, Lord Dirick, I trow.”

Henry chuckled in his booming way. “Aye, my love, I should say Dirick may have to raise his hand to her rump more than once in their life anon.”

“Your majesties,” Dirick bowed, his mouth tightening. “I beg excuse to leave.”

“Aye, Dirick, go you in search of her. I wish you the best of luck in taming that lady!”

Maris had made her escape from the abbey as soon as Dirick turned to greet the queen. Raymond of Vermille met her as she slipped from the crowded chamber, dogging her footsteps as she hurried down a narrow hall back to the castle.

Betrothed! Betrothed to Dirick, Lord of Ludingdon!

Her heart had been choking her since the announcement.

How had he done it? How had he convinced the king to award him not only a title, but her hand as well? Her mind spun with the incredulity of it, with excitement and titillation. She’d been unable, unwilling to react during the announcement for fear she’d misunderstood. Or that it was all a jest.

How had he done it? Only last evening had he been so below her reach.

Suddenly she became aware that Raymond had followed her from the chamber, and she slowed her frenzied pace. They paused, ducking into an alcove not far from her chamber in the keep.

“My lady,” said her faithful knight with a question in his voice.

“Raymond,” she said, leaning back against the stone wall. The hall was lit by the sun, which shone brightly through the arrow slits above her. She sighed wearily, passing a hand over her face. “I am to be married in four days!”

“Aye, lady, and not to Victor d’Arcy. Praise God!”

“Aye.” She breathed more calmly now. “There is that.”

He waited silently, as if knowing she must gather her thoughts.

“Dear God, Raymond, what am I to do?” Her voice sounded piteous even to her own ears. How could she face Dirick now? The man who was to be her husband?

Raymond rested a light hand on her arm. “Lady, lady…I’ll not let any harm come to you!” He hesitated, and his voice dropped as he edged closer. “Do you wish that I rid you of your betrothed as I promised once before?”

“What? Do you plot against me already?”