Колин Глисон: A Whisper of Rosemary

Only then was she able to settle back in her chair and look upon him with new eyes—realizing that this day, her world had shifted.

Her beloved father. The most important person in her world. He’d almost not come home.

And if he had not, she would be left alone, heiress to Langumont and vassal to King Henry—a ripe prize for any man to take.

Maris slid to her knees at that moment, sending prayers of gratitude to the Heavenly Father for sparing her earthly one. The rough stone of the floor cut through her heavy wool skirts, and the chill and dampness seeped into her knees, reminding her how different her life would be were her father not there to protect her.

Despite her array of responsibilities as lady of the manor, Maris suddenly felt young and small when she thought of being without her papa. Allegra had never had the inclination or the skill to manage the estates. Indeed, Maris tended to care for her mother more than Allegra cared for her. Her papa was her strength.

Maris rose from her knees and dashed away the single tear that had seeped from one eye.

It was foolish and a waste of time to cry over that which would not come to pass. Papa had returned and he would heal well. She would see to it. And she wouldn’t let him leave again until he was strong and able. She would also take Raymond of Vermille aside and impress upon the master at arms that if he allowed one hair on Merle’s head to be harmed, she would flay him herself, and—

Merle shifted, groaning softly, and Maris reached for his heavy hand. She sat on the edge of the bed and held his fingers in her lap, thanking God again that he was not so sore injured that he had fallen into a fever.

“Maris.” His voice was stronger than she’d expected and a surge of relief rushed over her.

“Papa, I have broth for you…and willow tea.” She helped him sit upright and saw that his eyes were open, gleaming and lucid. Aye, there would be no fever and for that she sent up another prayer of thanks.

“Aye, dearling I find I am quite hungry. Where is your mama?”

Maris brought him the bowl and dredged up a spoonful of the rich broth as she replied. “Mama came immediately, but at the sight of your gash, her head became light, and so she went to get some air. She bade me call her when you awakened—or if you worsened. So there you see, naught has changed in your absence.” She smiled with a bit of humor as well as satisfaction when she saw the way he gulped the broth.

Papa smiled back, easing her worry that much more. “But it’s not the truth, dearling, that naught has changed—for I have seen changes just in this chamber. You’ve grown more beautiful and more skilled in my absence. I told Raymond I wished to come to the place where I would be cared for the best. And I made the right choice.”

“Aye, indeed, Papa, none will care for you as I do,” Maris told him with a teary smile. “But you must rest now.”

“Aye. That I will. And on the morrow, I have much to say to you, my beloved daughter, and I will brook no disagreement from you.”

The morning after Christ’s Mass was a cold, clear one, and the sun was high in the sky. Maris shielded her eyes from the brilliance of the snow as she picked her way to the stables.

Her mare, Hickory, nickered softly from the last stall on the left. Maris crooned gently to her, petting the soft black nose that rooted about the folds of her brilliant blue cape for the dried apple hidden therein. She offered the treat to Hickory, then knelt in the stall to look at the injured leg.

Yesterday’s poultice was long dried, and Maris peeled the strips of cloth away. Gingerly feeling the length of the mare’s foreleg, she noted Hickory’s start when she pressed on the muscle that had been strained a week earlier. The swelling from an abrasion against rough stone had eased, but the mare was still in too much pain to walk easily.

Before the warm bruisewort poultice she’d prepared cooled, Maris pressed the cloth that held the herb onto the tender spot on Hickory’s leg. The horse nickered softly and butted her nose against the top of her mistress’s head. Holding the herbal mass firmly in place, she wrapped clean strips of cloth around, binding it firmly to the injured leg.

She was just pulling to her feet when the sound of running footsteps alerted her.

“Lady!”

Maris froze her heart surging into her throat. Papa?

She whirled to see who was dashing into the stables with such haste.

“Milady, you must come at once. Thomas the Cooper’s wife—she’us strainin’ to deliver her babe an’ ’tain’t comin’. I done all I ken,” Widow Maggie pleaded in earnest. She wasn’t nearly as old as the lines on her face made her appear, and today they seemed even deeper and more stark than usual.

“Of course I’ll come.” Relief coursed through her, and Maris, always glad to have something with which to occupy her hands and mind, started out of the stables, brushing past the older woman.

Outside of the keep, a chill wind had kicked up and flurries of snow blew raucously about her cape and Widow Maggie’s three layers of wrap. Maris knew the way to Thomas the Cooper’s home, and trudged along as quickly as she could in the knee-deep snow.

It never occurred to her to bring a man-at-arms with her on a visit to one of her villagers. Maris knew there wasn’t a person within Langumont who would dare or even wish to harm a hair on her head. And if anyone should attempt such a foolish thing, the punishment would be swift and fatal.

Aside of that, it would take much too long to send for one to accompany her in desperate situations such as this.

As she hurried along, Maris wondered not for the first time what Papa intended to speak with her about—but whatever it was would wait until she returned. Papa was just as concerned for the welfare of the residents of Langumont as she was. For without them, the lands wouldn’t be worked, the tradesmen wouldn’t conduct their businesses, and the entire manor would fall to ruin.

All thoughts of her father disappeared when Maris approached the dark, dank hut. She could hear the screams of the woman inside.

Drawing a deep breath—as much to calm her nerves as to dispel the stench of blood, urine and other waste—she ducked her head and, pushing aside the heavy door, entered the hut.

In one corner of the dwelling was a bed, with a prone woman twisting on it in agony. Her huge belly swelled up from under the old blankets. Thomas the Cooper sat next to her on a three legged stool and held her hand. A block of wood was clamped tightly between her teeth, but did nothing to stifle the moans and shrieks of pain.

The windows were shrouded, and smoke from the fire pit choked Maris’s vision. Within moments, she had Thomas and Widow Maggie opening the windows and chimney to let the stagnant air out of the room.

“Darkness only encourages the bad humors,” she explained, stating aloud one of the cardinal rules Good Venny, her mentor, had taught her.

She wasted no time and pushed the blankets up over the woman’s abdomen to see what was happening. Dried blood smeared her legs, but Maris could see the bloody skin of a babe erupting from her womb. It was not the head crowning betwixt the woman’s thighs.

Dear God. “’Tis the bottom that comes. Bring water,” Maris ordered, her lips tight. “And, Maggie, some of that lye soap. I will wash before touching her.”

The leeches and physicians of England did not always agree with the tenets of Good Venny’s homeland, Jerusalem, but Maris had been taught by him and rarely veered from his wisdom. Most of the local leeches would never dare consider what Maris knew she must do to save the woman. She washed her hands quickly—another of Good Venny’s rules—then wiped the legs of the woman so she could better see.