Колин Глисон: A Whisper of Rosemary

“Aye. On his belly and unshriven,” Dirick spat, heedless of the breadcrumbs that sprayed into his wine. “His throat was slit deep, through to the spine. Someone had arranged it so that his head pulled back, leaving his face to look up at the heavens.” Anger and nausea rolled deep within him, simmering and bubbling from where he’d kept it tucked away for days.

“And his body was arranged thusly with another victim, hand to hand, belly to ground, face to the sky, as well,” Henry continued. His voice had lost its friendly boom and become hard. “’Tis a madman, and your father’s death was the third such instance in two summers.”

Dirick swallowed hard, and the lump of bread stuck in his throat. He gulped wine to soften it and warm his suddenly shivering body again. “More? There are more of these slaughterings?”

“Aye.” Of a sudden, the king looked as weary as Dirick felt. “I have summoned you with such haste because I do not wish there to be a fourth instance. You may fulfill your need for vengeance and mine own desires at the nonce, and with my blessing.”

The realization that he did not have to beg to be released from Henry’s service to find his father’s killer lightened Dirick’s weary shoulders. His prayers had been answered. “Many thanks, my liege. You have granted me the only boon I should ask of you.”

Henry nodded once, as if to agree, and Dirick shoved a hunk of crusty yellow cheese into his mouth. “You will leave on the morrow—or the one following, if you desire a day of rest before setting out on your quest. You have my permission to travel where you wish to run this killer to the ground, but one small task you must first complete.

“I have long suspected my vassal Bon de Savrille, Lord of Breakston by some fool’s decision, of having something to hide from his king. He has not traveled to me in more than a score moons, and he always gives the excuse of aught such as a bad crop, or reavers on the loose, for why he doesn’t come. At the last, ’twas that he’d injured a leg and couldn’t ride the distance. I bid you seek him out and learn what you can of him, and whether he should be trusted. I do not wish him to know you are my man, however, so take care how you present yourself.

“And as you travel to Breakston, you will cross the lands of Langumont. Lord Merle Lareaux of Langumont, as you mayhap are aware, is the one who came upon the scene of your father’s death. You must speak with him.”

Dirick could barely contain his satisfaction and relief at being commanded by his king to do the very thing he’d planned to plead for. “Aye, my lord. And what of the other instances of this slaughtering mad man? Are there others I should speak with as well?”

“I shall have news sent to you at Langumont, as my man Dwain travels to Lederwyth to visit with a merchant who came upon the last scene. Of the first instance…’twas nearly two summers past, and the man who found the victims is dead of the pox. He will be no help to you.”

“Very well, my lord. Now, if you will, as you have provided me with satisfaction for belly and mind, I will beg leave and seek a pallet. It will be a long ride to Langumont and Breakston, and I am weary in both body and spirit.”

Eleanor’s dulcet tones interrupted any response her husband may have intended. “But Christ’s Mass is on the morrow, Dirick. By now the ladies have heard of your return, and they will be sore disappointed to be cheated of your dance and song at the feast.”

“Christ’s Mass?” Dirick shook his head, the weariness rushing over him again with full force. But he was not so fogged that he didn’t recognize her implicit command that he should stay and entertain her ladies. “I did not realize…aye, mayhap I will stay for the feast.” He was rewarded with a warm smile from the beautiful queen, and he considered for not the first time the challenge Henry must have, managing such a powerful woman as his wife.

It was a blessing Dirick would never have that cross to bear.

He staged a brief bow. “May I beg your leave, your majesties?”

“Aye, Dirick, only one more thing.” Something akin to grief brushed the king’s ruddy face, and Dirick recognized pain in his liege’s eyes. “You must know I am greatly grieved at your father’s passing. He was a good man, and a loyal friend and advisor. I will do whatever I can to help you bring his killer to justice.”

It was late in the day of Christ’s Mass. Maris trudged through the new-fallen snow from the hall out into the bailey and over to the door that opened into the small structure that was her herbary. The little building was both her sanctuary and her liberation.

This day, the new miller’s wife was about to deliver her new baby, and Maris would be there as her healer. It was true that one of the village midwives or leeches could be there to help her, but Maris had tired of watching in vain for her father’s return and she didn’t wish to have idle hands.

Keeping her hands busy would keep her mind from stewing on the fact that Allegra refused to tell her anything more of Bon de Savrille.

The worry gnawed away in her mind.

As did the memory of de Savrille’s hungry expression as he looked at her in the hall.

A strange shiver—one of discomfort, mayhap of fear—whipped over her shoulders and had nothing to do with the cold.

And where was Papa? He had been gone over long, and it had been more than a moon since his last letter in which he was certain he’d be returned by Christ’s Mass. She missed him, and she could speak with him about her worries. Surely he would know whether this Bon de Savrille was a threat or nay.

Then, as if her deepest wish conjured him, Maris heard it: the bellows, the excited calls from the bailey.

“Riders approach! The lord’s standard!”

Hardly daring to hope, she dashed from the herbary on swift feet, allowing the door to smack into the wall as she flung it open.

“The lord! The lord returns!”

The bellowing shouts came from the guards as they raised the portcullis and lowered the drawbridge and spurred Maris’s excitement and relief.

But when she saw him, saw that he barely sat on the saddle and that his face bore a pasty expression the color of bad meat, her greetings dried in her throat. As she watched, as his eyes scored the bailey, over the masses of people welcoming his return, and finally settled on her person. She felt his relief from across the yard.

Terror surging in her chest, Maris started toward him, heedless of the danger of his war-trained horse, as he gave the barest of smiles with what seemed to be a last effort.

And then her papa slumped over, sliding off the saddle and into the snow.

It was well past the evening meal before Maris assured herself that her father would live. After the first numbness of terror, she’d galvanized into action, snapping orders and demands to serfs and men-at-arms alike.

Papa’s squire and Raymond Vermille, the master-at-arms, had carried him into the hall, up the stone-cut stairs that led to the private chamber he shared with Allegra. Maris preceded them, calling for warm water, strips of linen, broth, as well as array of herbs from her storeroom: woad leaves and comfrey roots, lavender and birch bark.

She’d soaked the linen of his sherte , which had dried into the blood of his wound, so that it could be pulled away with as little pain as possible. She mashed a paste of dried woad and comfrey root over the deep slice in his side—the mark of a sword, and not an unfamiliar sight to Maris. After wrapping it with cloth soaked in a birch bark tea, she watched for a long while until his breathing became regular and deep.