The village, again smaller, was filled with peasants that veered from Nick’s path and peeked out from behind closed doors as Dirick rode through. Most of the roofs seemed to be in decent condition, but the silence of the village ate right through to his bones.
The journey had not been long. He’d spent the full day riding hard, spending Nick’s pent up energy. Now that he approached the portcullis and the sun was sinking, Dirick was well ready for his pallet. Cold wind was bitter upon his face, and the food that Maris sent with him was long gone.
Maris.
She had been much on his mind the day through. Too much.
Dirick reined in abruptly at the huge iron gates looming above him.
“Who goes there?” called a voice from above.
“Dirick de Arlande, begging for succor,” he called back, tilting his head to see.
There was a long moment, then the voice returned, “From whence come you, Sir de Arlande?”
“I am originally come from Paris and most recently, Dover,” he replied. “I have traveled for days, looking for work. I am quite skilled in arms.”
Again, there was a long pause. Then, “You are French?”
“Aye. I hail from near Brest,” Dirick replied, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Most often, unless there were unusual circumstances, questions such as these were saved for after a lone knight was allowed entrance.
At long last, the portcullis began to creak and shake violently as the gate was raised. Dirick urged Nick forward, uncertain that the ailing gate was in good enough repair to ensure his safe passage. Once inside the bailey, he was greeted by a stocky, pock marked man that held himself in high importance.
“You are well come to Breakston, Sir de Arlande,” he said. A man hovered in the background until he was urged forward, “Take this man’s mount, Severn.”
Dirick relinquished Nick with some hesitation, yet the man seemed to know what he was doing and led the destrier away with little effort. “Many thanks for allowing me entrance,” he told the first man.
“I am Sir Robert, castellan of Breakston. My lord, Bon de Savrille, awaits your presence within.” That was it. No smile, no friendly greeting—just a barely disguised order that Dirick draw himself within.
He grimaced inwardly and followed Robert across the small, cluttered bailey, feeling even more certain that Henry was right. At the very least, de Savrille had allowed his fief to fall into disrepair—which meant lower revenues and taxes for the king.
Dirick noted that the keep was in need of some repair, but it was by no means falling down about him. There weren’t many serfs, nor were there many men at arms about. It was a much quieter, sullen place than his home and that of Langumont.
Sir Robert led the way across the smoky hall strewn with rushes so old and rotted that they ground away under their mailed feet. Several dogs greeted them, sniffing at their heels until Sir Robert lifted a foot to kick them away. Then they slunk off to a spot under one of the tables. Smoke hovered much too low in the air, along with the stench of old grease and rotting food. Breathing carefully through his nose, Dirick hoped that he would not be a guest of Breakston overlong.
Bon de Savrille, Dirick assumed, was the stocky, bearded man sitting in a heavy chair near the fire. The blaze, at the least, was in marvelous condition. De Savrille’s dark eyes bored into him as he approached, slitted with mistrust. Immediately, Dirick allowed his features to relax and slip into a vacant expression.
“My Lord de Savrille,” he greeted upon reaching the warmth of the fire. He made a fine bow, and upon the upsweep, was gracious enough to add, “Many thanks to you for a spot to sleep for the night.”
“Aye,” Bon returned, sipping from a goblet.
Dirick inclined his head to the other man at the fire, a shorter, well freckled one with a shock of red hair. His paunch was nearly the size of Lord de Savrille’s, and his eyes not nearly as sharp. But there was a hint of suspicion within his countenance as well. “My lord,” he greeted the other man, uncertain of his title.
“Meet Edwin Baegot,” Bon explained carelessly.
“Well met, sieur,” Dirick replied, then settled himself easily on a roughly hewn stool near Bon de Savrille.
“Agnes!” barked Bon, “Bring this man some food and more ale for me!”
A shadow moved from a nearby corner, transforming into a skittish, gown draped woman, and hurried out of the room. As Dirick’s eyes followed her, he noticed that the great hall was nearly empty of men-at-arms, serfs, and any other form of life with the exception of the mangy dogs that had followed them into the room. Feeling the weight of Edwin’s suspicious gaze on him, Dirick kept his face blank despite the fact that his mind was racing. At the very least, Henry must find another vassal for Breakston.
Edwin asked about his journey and Dirick filled the silence with superficial babble about the roads and the holes in them, along with comments about the weather.
“Ah, at last you have returned you worthless creature!” Bon greeted Agnes, who nearly stumbled over one of the dogs. “Clumsy bitch,” he muttered as she carefully poured a healthy portion of ale into his goblet, spilling nary a drop in the process.
When she turned to offer Dirick a piece of hard bread and pale yellow cheese, he noticed the long purple scar that marred an otherwise pretty face. Her hair normally would cover it, but it swung out of the way as she stepped forward. “Thank’ee milady.”
“Lady?” scoffed Bon, nearly spewing ale in Dirick’s face. “If ye take a liking to her, she’ll spread her legs fast enough to knock you over. Lady, indeed!”
Agnes ducked her head and her hair obscured her face once again. She turned away to her corner, drawing the folds of her gown so that she did not stumble again. Dirick turned to his food, stifling any outward signs of compassion for the woman.
Ale dribbling into his neatly cropped beard, Bon slugged a hand across his mouth and asked, “How fares the Earl of Chantresse? Is it true that his daughter was to marry Enrique du Mathilde?”
Dirick idly scraped a bit of mold off the last bite of cheese, aware that de Savrille was likely attempting to confirm his guest’s story of being French. The fact that he felt the need to do so was quite interesting. “Aye, my lord, they were wed Midsummer last. ’Twas said that the daughter, Elisabet, was near dragged to the altar and that her papa said her ayes.” He gave a short bark of laughter, certain that Bon would find the story amusing.
“God willing ’twill not be such a trial on my wedding day,” Bon mused behind the hand that wiped again at his beard. The words were soft and not meant for his ears, but Dirick discerned the comment with little trouble.
“’Tis fair unlikely to happen any different here,” muttered Edwin more loudly.
Bon shot him a glare, but that didn’t suppress Dirick’s ingenuous question. “Is there to be a wedding here then?” He made it a point to not look around the quiet hall.
“Aye, if the wench’ll have me,” Bon replied. He and Edwin exchanged pointed looks followed by deep guffaws of laughter.
“And the lucky wench? Does she bring a great dowry, then?” Mayhap de Savrille needed more funds to set the place to rights and meant to get it from his wife.
Bon’s eyes narrowed to slits as if he suddenly realized that the turn of the conversation was not to his liking. “’Tis a love match,” he snapped.
This set Edwin to coughing. He began to choke on his ale and was forced to spit onto the floor. The dogs rushed forward with enthusiasm, then slunk away when they realized it was only ale.
Bon glared at his amused companion and stood abruptly. “There is a place for your pallet there. You will join us in a hunt on the morrow, Sir Dirick.”
With that, he turned and, barked at the lump in the corner. “Agnes! Come!”
Dirick watched them leave, then, under Edwin’s sharp stare, gathered his belongings and trudged to the corner indicated by de Savrille. There were no more than five other men snoring in what he took to be the knights’ quarters, and as he shook out his blanket, a small furry creature darted from between them. Rats.
His stomach turned and he almost cursed his sovereign for sending him to spy on what seemed to be no more than two bumbling idiots who lived amongst rats. But he stopped himself in time, for cursing his God given sovereign, his brother the monk would warn, would result in either hanging for treason if done aloud, or damnation if done in private.
Instead, Dirick eased his travel worn body onto the only clean surface in the entire keep and closed his eyes.
Maris sat primly in her saddle, golden skirts fluttering lightly. The brilliant blue cloak that Dirick de Arlande had so admired covered her from shoulder to toe, and much of Hickory’s rump as well. Maris’s chestnut hair was modestly covered by a heavy golden wrap, edged in mink, and her hands wrapped in the folds of the rabbit lined cloak.
She looked every inch the proper, controlled lady of the manor.
Inwardly, she was seething.
“Are you certain that you do not yet tire, milady?” asked Sir Victor for perhaps the dozenth time since they’d left Langumont Keep’s portcullis behind.
“Nay,” she replied, for the dozenth time, from between clenched teeth. In sooth, she was wearier from holding Hickory back from the spirited canter—or even full gallop—that the mare, as well as her mistress, desired.
Maris slanted a glance to the man who rode comfortably next to her. He sat tall and straight in the saddle, loosely holding the reins, allowing his gaze to cast about over the villagers and the town buildings.
Victor’s straight cap of hair, as pale as the wheat grown in Langumont’s fields, barely shifted as he was jounced along in his saddle. He was not an unhandsome man, she admitted to herself—in fact, he was not at all hard on the eyes. He seemed to have an even temper, although he tended, like her mother, to protect her as if she were a child. It was Victor who had suggested the ride, and Maris, anticipating a great race across the northwest field toward the forest, had agreed with alacrity. Alas, when she’d given Hickory her head and they moved into a canter just outside the wall of the keep, her companion had actually reached over and reined her mare into a trot.
