“I am Bon de Savrille, my lady. I had not expected...I was led to believe that the Lady of Langumont was called Allegra.”

“Lady Allegra is my mother,” Maris told him. “She has asked that I greet our guests and tend to their needs as she is otherwise occupied. May I offer you aught to eat or drink? If you have a message for my mother, I would be pleased to relay it to her.”

“Nay,” he returned, his gaze sweeping her again so that she felt the urge to look down and make certain the laces were tied at her bliaut’s bosom. “Nay, ’tis not she to whom I wish to speak.”

“But you did request to see the Lady of Langumont,” Maris pressed. “Do you bear a message of some sort? From my father?” A sudden fear seized her middle.

“Nay. I am merely in need of a pallet for the night, as I am traveling to my home. I asked only for Lady Allegra, as her name was familiar to me. I knew her once long ago, and had heard that she was lady here.” He smiled, and though he likely meant it to be a warm one, Maris thought it carried the greasiness of an undercooked hare.

The man was odd, but she did not fear him. Nay, she had no need to fear him, or any other man while in Langumont. At the slightest crook of her little finger, any number of men-at-arms would rush to her assistance or protection.

This single man who, even if he were armed could be wearing only a dagger or eating knife, posed no threat to her. Still. His expression caused Maris to step away, grateful for something to do other than to allow the man to rake her up and down with his eyes.

The look there was a mixture of complacence, interest, and cunning, and not for the first time did Maris wish she had Good Venny’s seventh sense for understanding people.

“You may have a seat at any of the tables, and there are pallets in the room below-stairs. If there is anything else you wish, please send for Ralf.”