Колин Глисон - A Whisper of Rosemary

“I am aware that the king has promised her to you.” Bon’s reply was bitter. “But that is not the purpose of my warning to you. Ask yourself why did Merle of Langumont not return from Breakston, and you will know why someone desires her dead.”

“Merle of Langumont died in the siege of Breakston, most like of your own hand,” Dirick returned slowly, the ale still swimming in his mind.

“Nay. Merle of Langumont was alive to accept my surrender,” Bon told him.

“You do not—”

Bon began to melt back into the shadows. “Nay, that is all I can tell you, sirrah, as I do not wish to be the next casualty…an’, in faith, I wish to be the one left to hold and comfort my lady when all is said and the battles done.” With that parting promise, he disappeared from sight.

“Who is it!” demanded Dirick of the shadows.

“Her father.” whispered a voice before its owner swept away into the night.

Her father. Dirick’s mind swam as he lay on his pallet, Bon’s words echoing in his memory, swirling among the ale that sopped his brain. Her father was dead, he reminded himself. What did the man mean? Nay, Merle was not her father, he remembered foggily. Ask yourself why Merle of Langumont did not return from Breakston . Why?

I love her. Those words taunted him with their sincerity. Another man loved his betrothed wife—truly loved her, if the pain in Bon’s voice was to be believed.

A heaviness settled over Dirick’s chest. His breathing quickened, then slowed, then rose faster again. If another man loved her enough to warn his enemy of danger, just to ensure that Maris should be safe, what would he do to have her?

The chamber around him spun and swam as he lay there.

Could she love him?

Nay, of course not.

Could she?

Dirick frowned at his absurd thought, fighting to crystallize the murkiness of his mind. Damn that last jug of ale!

Her father . The words returned. I love her .

Ask yourself why Merle of Langumont did not return.

He slept, dreamt, slept.

Dirick’s head felt thrice as large as normal, his ears a hundred times more sensitive, and his belly like the ocean during a storm.

The barking of the dogs was enough to drive him mad, yet he gritted his teeth and managed to smile at Henry’s jest.

“What ails you, Dirick?” the king asked, obviously noticing his pained grin.

“Naught but enough ale to drown a village,” he admitted.

Henry chuckled. “’Twould be a pity were you not at your best this eve when you take your bride to bed.” He laughed outright. “Say the word if you cannot perform your duties and would wish some assistance.”

Dirick glared at the king, finding little humor in his liege’s jest. “Nay, your majesty, I assure you—I have waited long enough for this night, and I will have no problem performing as I should.”

The king laughed again, then turned his attention to the howling hounds. “They’ve scented a boar!” he cried in excitement. With a spur to his mount, he leaned forward and the stallion leapt into the wake of the frenzied dogs.

A party of twenty some men and their horses trampled through the forest, bearing down upon the hounds. The fresh air whipping about his face dissolved the brunt of Dirick’s nausea and he began to get into the spirit of the hunt. With a cry of delight, he brandished the spear he carried and urged Nick harder, so that they gained ground on the king.

At last, the howling of the dogs indicated that they’d cornered the boar. The hunters raced into the clearing, reining up on one side, readying themselves to take passes at the snorting animal.

The boar’s red eyes blazed from its long snouted face, and angry tusks curled with enough curve to rock a careless dog before tossing it into the air. Bristling, wiry hair sprang from the beast, and hot breath rasped from flaring nostrils as it cast frantically about for an escape route. Hound, horse, or man blocked all avenues of freedom, and the boar grew more frenzied as it readied itself to rush through the blockades

“Now!” cried Henry, nodding at the three bridegrooms, who’d been given the honor of the first strokes.

Lord Bartholemew readied his spear and dug his heels into his mount’s sides. They leaped forward, crashing through the clearing, passing by the boar in a flurry of hooves, flapping cloak, and a well thrust spear. A spurt of blood sprang forth from the beast’s shoulder, and a cheer erupted from the other hunters.

Lord Richard followed shortly after, missing his stab at the boar, but distracting the howling beast from the spear wielded by Dirick. His aim was true, and the boar received another telling wound in its belly.

As Dirick halted Nick to the side, watching as the boar pawed the ground, readying itself for a vicious pass through the ring of men that surrounded it, he had a moment to reflect upon his garbled memory of Bon’s warning from the night before.

Why did Merle not return from Breakston ? If he were alive when Bon saw him last, and he was not felled during the attack upon the keep, then he must have died by the hand of someone else.

Michael and Victor d’Arcy?

The thought sprang to his mind, followed quickly by the question of why.

A shout from one of the hunters distracted Dirick from his thoughts, and he saw that the boar was wavering on its feet.

Her father.

Could Michael be Maris’s father? That could explain Allegra’s odd reaction when she greeted them back at Langumont. The hair prickled at the nape of his neck. Things were beginning to make sense.

Dirick turned to Lord Bartholemew, who watched the last thrust at the boar with rapt attention. “Bart, know you much of Lord Michael d’Arcy? Is he trustworthy?”

The other man turned, a look of satisfaction on his face as the boar crashed onto its side. “Lord of Gladwythe, you speak of? Verily, the man has an oddness about him. Mayhap ’tis because of his parents’ death…findin’ them like that would have to touch anyone’s mind.”

“What of his parents’ death?”

Bartholomew shook his head sadly, turning from the bloody scene of the boar’s demise and giving Dirick his full attention now that the hunt was over. “He was naught more than a boy when his papa and mama jumped to their death from a tower at Gladwythe.”

“He found them?”

“Aye. They’d jumped together, holding hands it looked, and landed thusly in the bailey at Gladwythe.”

Dirick stared at him for a moment, a chill creeping down his back. The pieces slipped into place and he felt the blood drain from his face.

“Ludingdon, are you well?” asked Bartholomew as if from very far away.

“I must go.” Dirick wheeled Nick around, his heart slamming in his chest. He drove his heels into Nick’s sides, leaning forward over the stallion’s neck, urging the horse on. “Tell the king I’ve found him!” he shouted over his shoulder as horse and man thundered through the brush.

He felt the saddle slip as Nick leapt over a tree trunk, and before he could think, its girth loosened, then gave way and suddenly, he was falling, falling.

His last thought before he hit the ground was that he had been sabotaged.

Maris opened the heavy gold box and gasped, sinking onto her bed.

“’Tis beauteous!” she exclaimed, pulling a rope of fine gold links from the small chest. Topazes and emeralds dangled randomly from the necklet that would wrap around her neck at least thrice. Each jewel was set in an ornate, filigreed hasp, each one different and a work of art in its own right.

“’Tis a wondrous bride’s gift,” said Madelyne with a twinkle in her eye. “Lord Dirick is a generous groom.”