A strange shiver—one of discomfort, mayhap of fear—whipped over her shoulders and had nothing to do with the cold.

And where was Papa? He had been gone over long, and it had been more than a moon since his last letter in which he was certain he’d be returned by Christ’s Mass. She missed him, and she could speak with him about her worries. Surely he would know whether this Bon de Savrille was a threat or nay.

Then, as if her deepest wish conjured him, Maris heard it: the bellows, the excited calls from the bailey.

“Riders approach! The lord’s standard!”

Hardly daring to hope, she dashed from the herbary on swift feet, allowing the door to smack into the wall as she flung it open.

“The lord! The lord returns!”

The bellowing shouts came from the guards as they raised the portcullis and lowered the drawbridge and spurred Maris’s excitement and relief.

But when she saw him, saw that he barely sat on the saddle and that his face bore a pasty expression the color of bad meat, her greetings dried in her throat. As she watched, as his eyes scored the bailey, over the masses of people welcoming his return, and finally settled on her person. She felt his relief from across the yard.

Terror surging in her chest, Maris started toward him, heedless of the danger of his war-trained horse, as he gave the barest of smiles with what seemed to be a last effort.

And then her papa slumped over, sliding off the saddle and into the snow.

~*~

It was well past the evening meal before Maris assured herself that her father would live. After the first numbness of terror, she’d galvanized into action, snapping orders and demands to serfs and men-at-arms alike.

Papa’s squire and Raymond Vermille, the master-at-arms, had carried him into the hall, up the stone-cut stairs that led to the private chamber he shared with Allegra. Maris preceded them, calling for warm water, strips of linen, broth, as well as array of herbs from her storeroom: woad leaves and comfrey roots, lavender and birch bark.