Owen shook his head, knowing that they would get maudlin about the old days and drink until they could barely stumble back to their cots. He would wake on the morrow with the devil's hammer pounding in his head and a mouth as dry as the sands of Hell. He did not wish to meet with the Lady Jocelyn in such state.
'I can sit no more, my friend. I must walk off the journey so I can sleep lying still tonight.'
'A word to a friend, then. Watch yourself with Lady Jocelyn. Lord March is ambitious. He will look the other way if his lady plays with the powerful, but not with a servant of the household, no matter how well you speak.'
Bertold had tossed out the right bait. As Owen sat down with his friend, he sent up a silent prayer that he could glean what he needed from Bertold this night and get away before the past came pouring over him in a great wave of ale. Already his head ached from the earlier tankards.
'The lady's a bit round in the face and dull-witted for your tastes, I would ha' thought,' said Bertold.
'And where is this Lord March I'm to be wary of?'
Bertold nodded his head towards the table to the left of the Duke's high table. 'The bald one with the mouth.'
Lord March was the focus of attention at the table, leaning across it to yell, red-faced, at a smirking companion. He was a tall, lanky man in the latest fashion, sleeves so wide their ends were lost in the rushes at his feet, leggings so tight it was plain for all to see that his argument not only engrossed but aroused him.
'He looks a character.'
'At the moment he's favoured by the right people, so I for one would not cross him.'
'Gaunt favours him?'
'He has a canny mind for contracts.'
'I'll watch my step.'
The morning sun was hot on Owen's face, though the air was sharp and a brisk wind got under his clothes to chill what the sun could not reach. The scar on his face burned and tugged in the cold, dry air, and the need to squint in the brightness made it worse. He'd a mind to return to the pallet he'd made up in Bertold's room and waste the day away in sleep, but he had his job, he must follow it through. As he passed along the beds of the kitchen garden, Owen sensed eyes on him, but the only person in sight was an old servant raking the path. Owen paused several times to break off a sprig and smell the familiar herbs. He favoured spicy, tangy herbs. His mother had fed them a mash of rosemary and sage in winter to keep their blood hot. She'd prepared it in a wooden bowl that carried the scent of the mash year round.
A long time since he'd thought about that. Odd how the scent of a plant could make him feel as if he could reach out and touch his mother's face. Her smooth, soft skin. Her coarse, curly hair, like his, only silver and bronze. Ten years or more since he'd seen her. Her hair would be all silver now, or white. Her cheeks and eyes sunken. She would look old and weary. But he was quite sure she was still alive. He would know if she had died, if his mother's strong spirit had passed from this world. Wouldn't he? Best not to dwell on it.
The paths of the rose garden were wider than those of the kitchen garden, and edged with river rocks. Here the Duchess would stroll with her maidens and sit on a sunny spring day. The paths twined among themselves and met at an urn that was empty now but for a few dry leaves that skittered in jagged circles within the bowl. In the beds, the brown twigs that would fill out and bloom in summer were heaped with straw. A smell of decay hung in the air. Depressing. He hurried through.
The holly hedge that bordered the rose garden was a welcome goal, its dark green leaves shining and bristling like men at arms awaiting battle. Or were the bright red berries spots of blood? Were they standing at attention at the end of the slaughter, hoping that their lord would notice their many wounds and give them leave to take ship home? Owen shook off the thought. What a gloom this winter garden laid over his soul. Or was it last night's ale?
As Owen passed under the holly arch, he again sensed eyes at his back. And again, spinning round, he saw nothing.
A long way ahead of him, on a pathway between pruned fruit trees, Lady Jocelyn led a dog so pampered that its belly cleaned the path beneath it as it waddled along. It was clear that the dog wished to maintain a much slower pace than the lady permitted, for she tugged at the jewelled leash every few steps. Lady Jocelyn was headed for the maze. Owen hurried, not wanting to lose her. He'd been in the maze only once, and that had convinced him that one walked in a maze only with someone who knew it well. His approach alerted the dog. It pricked up its ears and began to yap, digging its paws into the dirt of the path. Lady Jocelyn glanced back, gave a little wave when she saw Owen, and then inexplicably picked up the yapping dog and hurried into the maze.
Owen halted, perplexed. Had she for some reason changed her mind about granting an interview? Had he misunderstood? Had she misunderstood? His scar was pulling, and the chill made standing still unpleasant. Sleeping off the aftershocks of the ale seemed a better idea all he time. But should he give up so easily? Perhaps he would walk to the entrance of the maze and call her name. If she did not answer, he would turn round and indulge himself.
As he approached, the dog resumed its yapping, farther and farther into the maze. Lady Jocelyn was not waiting for him at the entrance. He almost turned back. What good was it to call to her? He would hardly be heard over the yapping dog. But he must question the lady sometime.
Owen stepped through the sentinel yews and came face to face with the angry eyes of Lord March. He looked much larger in his fur-lined cloak and draped fur hat.
'Are you following Lady March?' he demanded. His voice had a most impressive resonance.
'Following? It was not my purpose, Lord March, but seeing her tugging at the little beast, I thought I might lend a hand.'
The face was getting closer. Owen did not like its colour. Too red for reason. 'You would follow a young woman into the privacy of the maze unchaperoned?'
Owen wanted to laugh. The dog would hardly allow for much dalliance. But he groped instead for a calming comment. It was at such times that he cursed himself for not pursuing his original plan, connecting himself to an Italian noble as a mercenary. That life would not have involved verbal duels. Perhaps humility was what Lord March desired. Owen made a little bow. 'Forgive me. I see how it appeared to you. I did not mean to insult Lady Jocelyn's virtue in any way.'
Lord March grew redder. His beady eyes were now so close to Owen's face that he could see the red trails of last night's brandywine. 'You spoke with her at table last night.'
Dear God, here it came. The truth just might get him out of this if it weren't about Lady Jocelyn's dead lover. Owen thought quickly. 'Last night. Aye. To be honest, it was that I wanted to apologize for. You see, my mates dared me to seek a word with her, the lovely new lady-in-waiting. They fortified me with ale and sent me off with the lie that she was unmarried. She soon set me straight about that. This morning I feel a fool.'
'So you thought to dally with my lady, did you?'
A fist met Owen's face. He couldn't believe it. Lord March had come out here for a brawl? His punch had grazed Owen's chin. Now he seemed to be aiming for his patch. Owen caught the arm that was raised to him and punched Lord March in the mouth. That set him back long enough to give Owen a chance to feel his jaw and reassure himself that any bruising would be hidden by his beard. He disliked the idea of travelling with signs of a recent brawl. One did not get good service at the inn with bruises and an eye patch. Lord March turned back for another go. Owen grabbed the man's arms and was embarrassed by how easily he held him still.
'I do not wish to continue this, my lord. I assure you that you have no cause to fight me. I have not injured your name in any way.'