Колин Глисон: A Whisper of Rosemary

“Never,” she repeated.

Bon’s eyes were sharp as they settled on her, raking over her with obvious disgust. “This is not the last you will hear from me.”

Without another word, Bon turned and strode from the hall.

Allegra eased herself slowly back onto the stool, her head light. The world was in a darkening spiral.

What could she do?

Bone-weary, dirty, and smelling of ripe horse, Dirick of Derkland hailed the guardsmen above the heavy portcullis of the Tower of London. At last.

Nick’s sure hooves clattered on the polished wood as they continued through the entrance into the bailey of King Henry the Plantagenet’s current residence. It had been a brutal two days’ ride in snow and sleet from the funeral of Dirick’s father at Derkland Keep, and he wished only to strip off his half-frozen, sweat-soaked sherte and chausses and slip into a steaming bath that smelled of some pleasing spice or other.

With one of the king’s maids attending him, of course.

Mayhap that, at least, would turn his mind from the grief and anger that had gnawed his middle this se’ennight past.

Fortunately, Dirick had visited Henry uncountable times and Nick knew the whereabouts of the stable without prompting. Dirick’s eyelids sagged, as did his shoulders, and when he slid to the ground, planting his boots in the snow, his knees buckled from weariness. One of the marshals took Nick’s reins, and Dirick stumbled gratefully toward the main keep where he would find food and warmth. The bath and the woman, he amended internally, could wait for the morrow.

He would search out a pallet on the floor in the below-stairs chamber for the men, and he would sleep. Sleep. He prayed he was too tired to dream, for the nightmare of what had befallen his father would surely haunt him.

Dirick managed the steps into the hall, but had barely begun his search for a spot at the long trestle tables when he was hailed from behind.

“Dirick! You are here.”

He turned toward the familiar voice. “Gavin. Aye, only just moments ago. I am in search of food and a pallet,” he responded, grasping the forearm of his friend in greeting.

Lord Gavin of Mal Verne was shaking his head, his stark features more sharp than usual. “I fear your rest must needs wait. Henry demands you attend him immediately.”

Dirick cursed, flexing his frozen fingers. “How can he know I am arrived? I have only just left the stable. I didn’t even take the time to unsaddle Nick myself.”

“We were in his private chamber when the news came you’d crossed the drawbridge. He bade me send you to him immediately, before you found yourself in the company of one lady or another.” A faint quirk of his mouth gave the words a humorous edge, but it slipped away at his next words. “I was aggrieved to hear of your father’s death. I am sorry that Madelyne and I could not attend the funeral, but the news did not reach us here until ’twas too late.”

“Aye. I learned the news in bare time to travel to Derkland myself,” Dirick replied, falling into reluctant step with Gavin as they left the hall. “I traveled two days with no rest from Kent, and then at the nonce of the funeral’s end, I remounted Nick and rode here with no rest.”

He’d felt more than a bit of guilt, leaving his brother Bernard—who was now Lord of Derkland—to deal with the grief of their mother, but it could not be helped. Joanna, Bernard’s wife, was a kind and gentle soul, and she would take good care of their mother.

“There is, at least, food with the king,” Gavin pointed out as they came to a fork in the passageway. Then he stopped and gave Dirick a wry smile. “Now that I have done my duty, I’ll bid you good eve and wish you luck on finding your pallet sometime before the dawn. I have been with Henry all the day myself—he is filled with the energetic humors all these last days and has kept me since dawn. And Madelyne awaits me.”

“Bid her well for me. I’ll speak with the king, then, God willing, find that pallet and sleep for two days. ’Tis that, or my knees will give out in his royal presence.” Dirick gave his friend a weak grin, then turned toward Henry’s chamber and strode rapidly down the chill, dark passage. The sooner he should learn of the king’s needs, the sooner Dirick could see to his own.

’Twas not as if his own requirements were great.

As the youngest son of Harold of Derkland, Dirick had neither lands nor an affinity for the Church—as his two elder brothers did, eldest and middle, respectively. Instead, he had made himself indispensable to the young King of England when he was merely the Count of Angevin and wooing his bride, Eleanor of Aquitaine. Henry had grown to trust and rely upon Dirick, and as he had naught to offer any woman but his company and his body, Dirick had enjoyed his time in Eleanor’s Court of Love whilst managing the variety of tasks Henry set before him.

’Twas just as well that he had not been seated in the hall, he reflected numbly, striding along the curving passageway. He was in no good mood to charm the ladies of Eleanor’s court, nor did he wish to offend any of them in his present state.

But to his dismay, when Dirick was shown into Henry’s private solar, his wife, Queen Eleanor attended him also.

“Your majesty.” He bowed first to Henry, pressing his forehead to the king’s outstretched hand, and then swiveled on his bent, aching knee to greet the queen. “My queen, I fear I offend you in my present state.”

“Dirick, you may get off the floor and rid yourself of that sword and cloak,” Henry boomed, standing to look down at him. “’Tis not as though Eleanor doesn’t understand the rudiments of traveling in haste. The woman leaves me in her tracks when we tour Aquitaine. ’Tis only when she is enceinte that she travels at a reasonable pace,”

“Indeed, Sir Dirick,” the queen’s languid tones forgave him, “’twould be unthinkable that you could offend me. Or any of my ladies, for that matter.”

Dirick murmured his thanks and pulled to his feet, smothering a groan from the ache in his knees, and unbuckled the sword from his tunic. Resting it on the floor near the door, he tore the cloak from his shoulders and dropped it atop the scabbard, then turned back to his liege.

“Sit yourself down,” Henry grumped, turning to pace across the room. “Your excessive height offends me—and in truth, you look as though you are ready to fall over.”

Dirick sank onto a stool near the crackling fire and tried to warm his hands. Henry’s sharp eyes surely did not miss the weariness and pain that lined his man’s face, but he said nothing save, “Your father is laid to rest?”

“Aye. He is laid to rest—yet I will not rest until I lay hand and sword upon the man who helped him to an early grave.” Dirick stopped his weary tongue from adding aloud the words that echoed in his mind: with or without your blessing .

“And well you should not, Dirick. I would expect no less from you. A younger son you might be, but bound with honor and determination you ever have been—at the least in my name.” Henry gestured to a wooden platter of cheese and bread. “Eat, man, before you tilt onto the floor, and I will tell you why I have summoned you.”

Eleanor thrust a goblet of ruby wine into his hand, and Dirick took it, mildly surprised that she would serve him. But he was left to reach for his own hunk of bread, and he did, tearing it from the brown loaf, and breaking off a piece of cheese as well. The wine, surely from Eleanor’s own lands of Aquitaine, went smoothly down his throat and warmed his limbs as Henry began to speak in his abrupt fashion.

“As I have heard it, your father Harold was found dead with his horse and one of his men near Derrington. ’Twas no ordinary scene of war or thievery.”