Then the memory of his brutal lips and grasping hands returned, and she felt nauseated. If he wasn’t truly evil, at the least he was greatly reprehensible. She renewed her private vow that if she were unfortunate enough to be bound to him, if he raised a hand to her or otherwise used force, he’d not live past their first moon of wedded bliss.
When she opened her eyes, Maris’s gaze fell upon a tall, dark haired man no more than a few rows from the dais. Dirick’s handsome, unshaven face as appeared to be carved of stone, and his stare was trained upon her. Abruptly, he turned away, bowing his head slightly.
A tremor of heat rushed up her spine even as her lips pursed in anger. Aye, the man could melt her with his kisses and the strength of his large, powerful hands—
“Maris of Langumont.”
The sound of her name ringing out jerked Maris’s attention back to the altar, where the king stood, looking expectantly at her. The bishop gave her a none too gentle push and she caught her balance before she stumbled onto the dais.
What was this? She had already pledged her fealty. What was happening now? Gathering up her skirts, she took two steps onto the altar.
“Monique of Trysdon.” The king’s secretary solemnly intoned another name. “Bertilde of Hyannes.”
Bewildered, but taking great care to keep her face devoid of emotion, Maris stood near the king, joined by Lady Monique and Lady Bertilde. She clasped her hands over her abdomen, tangling her fingers in the heavy silver and gold girdle that wrapped about her waist.
There was silence after the three women were assembled, and then the king spoke. “It pleases us to decree the betrothals of three of our wards on this day, to such lords of the realm who have since pledged their loyalty—and who have maintained it in instances of great adversity.”
Maris’s heart plunged to her stomach and she felt light headed. Betrothal! She’d not expected this, had had no time to prepare herself for this eventuality. She’d been certain that the king would simply collect the tithes from her lands as his ward for many years before giving her to one of his barons. Unless…her heart tripped and she flashed a glance at Michael and Victor. Had they pressed their suit to the king and did he now intend to honor the betrothal her father had made?
She dared not look at Dirick, dared not let him see what was surely in her eyes. He must not know how she felt. Instead, she returned her attention to the king, who’d just announced the name of Lady Bertilde’s betrothed—one of the powerful barons whose holdings fell upon the Welsh border.
“Lady Monique of Trysdon.”
The lady in question stepped forward, and Maris saw her gaze flicker to Dirick. Her stomach plummeted and she tightened her fists, digging her nails into the palms of her hands.
Nay, not to him. Her silent plea to God was instinctive, if not selfish, and Maris took a small step backward in her confusion, jostling the priest.
“Lady Monique of Trysdon is hereby promised to Lord Bartholemew d’Ausignan.”
A wave of relief swept over Maris, but was instantly usurped by a light headed faintness when her name was called. She steeled her features to show no emotion as she stepped toward the king, her gaze brushing over Queen Eleanor, who sat with a satisfied smile behind him. Maris gave a little curtsey, then straightened, swallowing the lump in her throat as she awaited her fate.
“Lady Maris of Langumont is hereby promised to the Baron of Ludingdon and Fairhold.”
There was a pause as the audience digested the announcement, and then, as exclamations of confusion and surprise erupted, a loud voice shouted, “The lady is already promised!”
Voices quieted as Michael d’Arcy pushed his way through the crowd, followed closely by his son. “The lady is promised!” his voice rang loudly into the sudden stillness.
Maris’s heart thudded in her chest and her limbs prickled with tension. Though she had no knowledge of the Baron of Ludingdon, verily he was a more desirable groom than the one who now stood at the base of the dais in his father’s shadow. She prayed that was so.
Henry looked down at the d’Arcys, raising his brows. “What say you, man? The lady is promised?”
“Your majesty, the lady’s father, Merle of Langumont, entered into a betrothal contract between his daughter and my son, Lord Victor d’Arcy.”
The king stroked his beard. “And can you produce the contracts to verify your claim?”
From his place in the crowd, Dirick could see a glitter of humor in the king’s grey eyes. Through his numbness, he wondered what game Henry played, even as he was desperate to learn who this Baron of Ludingdon was.
Who was to have Maris?
Who was the man?
Michael d’Arcy was speaking. “The contracts were drawn up but the lady was spirited away before they could be finalized. Lord Merle was slain during her rescue. But there are many witnesses to the lord’s intent, for ‘twas announced to the people of Langumont.”
“And ’tis your claim that the contract should be honored though it was not signed?” Henry glared down at the man before him.
Maris had been still throughout the exchange, and now Dirick saw her move as if to speak. Henry must have sensed the same, and he turned to her. “Lady Maris, what have you to say of this? Do you wish to pursue his claim of betrothal?”
“Your grace, I did not see the betrothal contracts of which Lord d’Arcy speaks,” her voice was steady, “but ’tis true that my father announced such an intention.” A grin of satisfaction creased Michael’s face, broadening with her next words. “But, my lord, ’tis my intent to abide by my father’s last wishes before his untimely demise.”
Coldness swept over Dirick. She’d honor the betrothal! The bitter tang of disappointment touched his tongue, and he swallowed back a retort of frustration. He almost missed the small smile touching her lips as she bent her head demurely. What game was she playing now?
The king shot Maris a glance, giving a slight nod and a matching smile. Sensing some undercurrent between the two, Dirick renewed his attention as Henry spoke. “Ah, aye, my lady. We, too, intend to honor the final wishes of our faithful vassal.”
Michael started to speak, confident that he’d won the battle. The king cut him off, producing a curling parchment sheet. “We have a missive writ in the hand of Lord Merle of Langumont, to ourselves, on the thirteenth day of this January. This letter, scribed as he prepared to besiege the castle where Lady Maris was held, repudiates the intended betrothal contract between his daughter, Maris, and Lord Victor d’Arcy.”
“Nay!” shrieked Michael d’Arcy in surprise, echoing his son’s shocked exclamation.
Henry looked down his nose at the furious man. “We assure you, ’tis true,” he said regally. “The contracts were not signed, and the lord recants his decision to betrothe Lady Maris to Lord Victor.”
The bishop nodded in agreement and Michael and Victor had no choice but to retreat.
Henry raised his gaze from the angry men, casting it about the chamber. The rising noise subsided when he lifted his hand. “Lady Maris of Langumont is hereby promised to the Baron of Ludingdon and Fairhold,” he repeated his earlier decree. “That is a title has been undesignated since the baron’s death without issue for some moons. This day, Dirick of Derkland shall swear fealty to us in that name of Baron of Ludingdon and Fairhold.”
Dirick felt a rush of blood to his face as shock numbed his body. His head snapped up to meet the king’s gaze and the twinkle of mischief in those pale blue eyes, and, dazed with his sudden good fortune, Dirick moved toward the dais. A barony! He’d been awarded a barony!