Most of the men-at-arms had retired from bawdy conversation and raucous story telling to the beds of whores, chess and dice games, or the night watch. Dirick himself was ready to find his own pallet when the seneschal approached Merle.

“My lord, a messenger at the gate brings tidings to our guest, Sir Dirick de Arlande.” The man stood silently, waiting permission to call the messenger within.

All thoughts of sleep and of Lady Maris’s luscious mouth fled Dirick’s mind to be replaced by anxiety. The news must be bad indeed for a messenger to track him whilst on a secret mission for the king. Fresh from the experience of having news of his father’s death brought in the same way, he was immediately concerned.

Merle nodded his assent to the seneschal, who disappeared to retrieve the messenger. The moments that passed until his reappearance seemed an age to Dirick as he forced nonchalance, sipping more ale. At last the messenger appeared, and Dirick’s concern was heightened when he recognized a man-at-arms of his brother Bernard, now the Lord of Derkland.

“The message I bear is best given in private,” the messenger said as he approached the high table.

“Then let us step to a private corner.” Dirick stood, his mouth compressed and his middle roiling.

The man followed him to a dark, chilly corner of the room and Dirick rounded on him as soon as they were out of earshot of the others. “What is the news, Sir Ivan?”

“Lord Bernard sent me thus—”

“He is well then? Bernard is well? Is it Thomas? Speak, man!”

“Aye, your brothers are well, and—”

“Mother! ’Tis not Mother?” Dirick’s body turned cold. Her grief over the loss of her husband had been deep and long. Had her broken heart weakened her?

“Nay, nay Sir Dirick—all is well.” The emphasis on these last words at last penetrated and Dirick’s tension eased.

“Well, man, you nearly affrighted me into an earlier grave than I should wish! What news is it that Bernard should send you to find me whilst on the king’s business?” He held his hand out for the missive.

“’Tis not writ,” Ivan told him. “Lord Bernard didn’t wish to chance the wrong eyes to see it and alert them of your assumed identity. He learned a story from a traveling knight who stopped at Derkland en route to the king. Upon hearing the details of your father’s murder” —Ivan crossed himself— “this man, Samuel of Lederwyrth, told the tale of another murder thus.”

Ivan began to speak from memory, his eyes glazing over as he recited the message:

“He came upon a terrible sight near London, nearly two leagues south of the city. It was obviously the scene of a robbery. There were two men dead and picked bare of their valuables. Both lay on the ground, facedown, in the most odd position: with their arms positioned as if their hands had been joined or clasped as they died. One of the men, knights they were both” —Ivan crossed himself again— “had been stabbed so as to leak blood for hours, and his throat cut. He was placed in the ground with his face in the dirt—”

“And his neck broken by the hoof of a horse, and his face pulled back so that his forehead touched the sky?” Dirick felt his heavy meal surge in his stomach.

Ivan shook his head, his eyes coming into focus again. “Nay, though a there was the imprint of a horse’s hoof deep in his back.”

Dirick closed his eyes as the image of his father’s similar fate swam into his memory. Nay, he hadn’t been tortured by seeing it himself, but he could imagine it all too well.

“My lord Bernard bade me also tell you of the horse found on the scene. ’Twas a fine horse with two legs broken, and it was hobbled to a tree. The horse had died thus.” Ivan’s face mirrored the horror that Dirick felt—but there was still more to tell. He drew forth a small bundle from the deepest folds of his cloak and offered it to Dirick. “The knight also showed Lord Bernard this, which was found embedded in a tree above the horse.”

Dirick’s hands trembled slightly as he held them out to catch the object rolling from the cloth.

The item was a wicked looking dagger. Dirick caught it easily in his hands, measuring the blade against the length of his hand from wrist to the tip of his longest finger.

The blade was silver, and the tip had been nicked off so that instead of a perfect point, it ended in a jagged edge. The dagger’s handle was wrought of silver filigreed roses intertwined with serpents, the blooms as true to life as the sharp thorns, as wicked as the slithering serpents. A small crystal was set in the end of the handle and it glittered in the light of the blazing fire.

“I’ve seen naught like this workmanship,” he murmured, gazing at the dagger for a long moment. He turned it over and over in his hands as if willing it to speak. At last, looking up at Ivan he asked, “What said my brother—shall I send this back with you to go to the king?”

Ivan shook his head, “Nay, my lord—Lord Bernard wished you to keep the dagger if you thought it of use to you. The king bade him send it to you.”

“Good.” Dirick wrapped the knife in its cloth and tucked it into his tunic. “This Samuel of Lederwyth—where did he come from? I should like to speak with him.”

“He hails from the southern lands—near London. Lord Bernard sent word to the king, who ordered him to tell you.”

Dirick was nodding. “Aye. This dagger will do me more good than his majesty, and mayhap soon I will have an identity to this mad killer now that we have something of his.” He looked down at the elegant, murderous weapon.

A wave of rage flooded him and his determination to find his father’s killer settled in the forefront of his mind.

Dirick suspected he would sleep ill this night.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Verna pulled the mantle more closely about her face, pushing back the hank of hair that threatened to obscure her vision. She trudged through the drifts, stepping carefully over the branches of the deepest part of the forest bordering Langumont Village. Her burden was secured tightly at her waist with a heavy cord, and she patted it several times to assure herself of its continued presence.

After a very long walk, Verna at last came upon a tiny hut nearly hidden in the trees. She shivered, but, gathering her courage up with her wrap, she approached the hovel. The forest was deathly still. Even the birds were silent. She glanced over her shoulder, half expecting a red eyed wolf to be watching.

Something touched her leg through the long cloak that caught in the snow. Verna leapt back before she could catch herself, nearly tripping over a huge black cat.

It hissed at her, then eased through a crack into the hut as Verna stilled in frozen trepidation. Her eyes wide, she stared at the hut, wondering if the cat had been the old crone herself.

Her fears were justified when, moments later, without her even raising her hand to knock, the door swung silently open. No one was there. She didn’t move except to clutch at the packet hanging from her side.

At last she took a hesitant step forward, and then another, until she could see into the dark, cavern like interior. The only light came from a blazing fire in the far corner.

“Are ye comin’ in er not?” a voice suddenly shrieked.

Verna started, but was galvanized to move forward. “Dame Marthe,” she whispered, crossing the threshold into the meager hovel.

Inside, she found a room filled with an assortment of tables and stools, and each stick of furniture was cluttered with crude wooden bowls and utensils. A heavy odor pervaded the room, and she saw what looked like the remains of several animals on a nearby table. The huge black cat was nowhere to be seen.

At first, Verna didn’t see the tiny, wizened lady ensconsed in a corner chair. But when her eyes finally rested on Dame Marthe, they were held there by a cold, rheumy blue pair. The crone’s face had more lines in it than a linen altar cloth, and her mouth was yet one more deep line. Spidery wrinkles radiated from the place her lips would be, and when she opened the lipless orifice to speak, Verna caught a glimpse of one stump of a tooth.

“My, my! A pretty lady has come to call!” the hag cackled with poorly concealed distaste. “And who might ye be?”

Verna swallowed, but forced herself to speak with confidence. “Verna of Langumont,” she answered. “Lady of Langumont.”

Overcome with mirth, Dame Marthe nearly fell off her rickety stool. “Lady of Langumont in a pig’s eye, ye are!” she returned harshly. “Ye’re no more The Lady than I am the Blessed Virgin!”

Verna nearly winced at the blasphemy. She’d deviated too much to devote any thought to such mundane cares as blasphemes. “I shall be Lady of Langumont, old woman—my time will come. My time will come with help from you.”

The hag contained her laughter; then her runny eyes narrowed. Mucus spilled out of them, running into the deep crevices in her cheeks. “Verna, ye say? Verna of the miller, might ye be?”

The maidservant nodded slowly, “Aye, dame. If you know of me…then you know of my plight. I have brought something to you. I am in need of assistance, old woman. You will be well rewarded upon completion of this deed.”

She pulled from her waist a cloth wrapped package. With a swift flick of her wrist, she opened it and a cloth of gold snood tumbled onto the dirty table. “And when we are through today,” she looked expectantly at Dame Marthe, “you shall tell my future.”

It was more than a se’ennight past Christ’s Mass and Lord Merle’s return to Langumont. One afternoon, shortly after the midday meal, Merle sighed and adjusted himself in his chair.

Allegra looked up, wondering if his wound still pained him. “Husband, may I pour thee more ale? Thy cup is near empty.” She was seated in the chair next to him, working on her embroidery. The dais on which they sat was near the fire, yet not near enough to be well lit. Merle had had torches and candles on tall stands set about so that his wife did not have to strain her eyes.

“Aye, love, more ale. And mayhap some cheese?”

“Of course, my lord husband.” Allegra provided him with his wishes as he watched Maris and Dirick play a game of chess.