by Aston, Alexa
He questioned what kind of man would push a horse in such a manner. It put him on edge. Was it a rider with news for the king? Had England made a sudden move against France in their dormant war? Would he be caught up in the turmoil?
His eyes followed the form as it approached, his hand poised atop his dagger. He crouched low in the saddle until, suddenly, his heart tossed wildly inside his chest. He recognized Marielle coming toward him. Ashby slipped from his mount to await her arrival. No thoughts formed clearly in his head. He wanted to reprimand her for coming. What kind of excuse would she give, riding out alone with no guard, so far from Monteville? He shuddered at the consequences of her foolish actions.
Before he could chastise her about such a dangerous act she was there, sliding from the saddle, her face a mixture of panic and relief. She fell into his arms and clung to him tightly, breathing heavily, gripping him as if her life depended upon him. Tremors ran through her as if she’d been chased by death—and barely escaped it. Ashby had seen men like this after a battle, their ragged emotions worn on their sleeves, their legs barely holding their weight.
He wrapped his arms around her, willing his warmth to surge through her. “Are you all right?”
“No!” Marielle withdrew from him, her eyes wide, almost fearful. “You must take me with you,” she demanded. “Jean-Paul is dead.”
“What?” Ashby grabbed on to her shoulders, shaking her. “What did you say?”
“Jean-Paul was poisoned.” She took a deep breath. “I believe Marc had a hand in it.”
Though his mind reeled at the accusation, Ashby turned rational. He lowered his hands and calmly asked, “Why do you think that?”
Marielle frowned. She shook her head several times before she spoke. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, as if trying to see something.
“I have always disliked Marc,” she ventured softly. Her eyes opened and she continued. “He has always made me feel . . . unclean. He looks at me as if I am . . .” Her voice faded, but Ashby knew exactly what she meant.
“Go on,” he prodded gently.
Marielle bit her lip. “He woke me very early to tell me Jean-Paul had been poisoned. I saw the body. I don’t know what a poisoning would look like but I know my husband’s death was unnatural.”
She hesitated a moment. “Marc insinuated, at first, that I would be blamed. That rumors already swirled about. He said I had flirted with you. He even accused me of breaking my marital vows.”
Ashby drew in a sharp breath. Marielle looked at him sympathetically and took his hand.
“A comte is like a king on his own estate,” she explained. “Everyone from peasants to merchants do whatever is in their power to please him. Marc is already drunk with power now that Jean-Paul’s title and wealth have passed to him. Whatever he says will be believed by the local authorities. He told me he would summon the magistrate and tell him one of two things.”
“What?” he asked, afraid to hear the choices, which wouldn’t be choices at all.
“Marc first said he would accuse me of witchcraft. Of casting a spell upon Jean-Paul in order for him to take me as his wife. If he does this, his claim alone—with no proof produced—would be enough to see me burned at the stake.”
He squeezed her hand, words failing him.
“Or he said he would claim I had murdered Jean-Paul. That I was an unhappy wife who engaged in affairs and wanted to be free of my husband. Once again, it would take no evidence of this action. The accusation of a comte would be enough to see me swing from a gibbet. Either way, my life will end painfully. No one will care that I am innocent of any charges. Marc will have spoken. That will be enough to see me gone.”
Ashby’s head swirled with the choices Marc de la Tresse had offered Marielle. He had known English lords held immense power but a French comte seemed to have even more sway in France.
“Of course, he gave me a much different choice than dying. He said I must marry him to end the rumors. That he would protect both me and Monteville. No harm would come to me under the blanket of his protection because I would be his wife.” She paused and gazed into Ashby’s eyes. “At that moment, I saw within him a greed that would stop at nothing. I knew how deeply his jealousy ran. How much he despised Jean-Paul and how he’d longed for Monteville for so many years.”
She dropped his hand and turned away. “And how he hungered for me.”
Ashby placed his hands upon her shoulders again. She lay a hand atop one of his. “I have seen desire in his eyes for many years yet I convinced myself nothing could possibly come of it. I had my husband’s protection. Marc might have been jealous of his older brother but he was also afraid of him.”
She gazed up at Ashby, grinding out her words. “I should have warned Jean-Paul. I could have done something. I—”
Marielle burst into tears. Ashby drew her to him. Great sobs racked her body. His cloak grew damp from her tears. She cried for some minutes. He comforted her the best he could, murmuring nonsense as he stroked her hair.
Finally, she composed herself. “That is why you must take me away with you. Far from Marc. From France. If I refuse to marry him, I dread what my life will become.” She paused. “If you choose not to aid me, I shall take sanctuary in a convent.”
Ashby remembered she’d spent much of her life in one. How she had as little calling to the Church as he did. A woman of her intelligence and beauty should not be locked away from the world. He knew her to be a good person but not pious as a nun should be. Marielle would wither and die in that kind of environment.
“What I fear most is that Marc will kill me,” she added. “That my refusal to marry him will drive him far over the edge. He is a volatile, angry man. If I stand up to him and reject his idea of our marriage, he is the kind to take matters into his own hands. I would be beaten. Abused. And murdered. He would take pleasure choking the very life out of me.”
Her final words made up Ashby’s mind. If he’d wavered before, she’d now convinced him. Knowing his gut’s reaction to Marc de la Tresse from the beginning, he would not put it past him. Marielle had good reason to be frightened of such a man.
He might regret his actions later but he would take her to Stanbury. Madeleine fled years ago from an impossible situation. She would be sympathetic to Marielle’s predicament.
“Come,” he said simply.
Marielle brushed aside her remaining tears. “I know I am asking much of you, Ashby. I turned to you because you are my only hope. I realize I am leaving behind everything I have ever known. But I know I must in order to survive.”
She went to her horse. Ashby lifted her into the saddle and handed her the reins.
“Thank you” she said, her voice still thick with emotion.
“I always hand a lady her reins,” he said lightly, hiding his own emotions.
He mounted his horse. Turning to her, he asked, “I must know—are we in a hurry? How soon will you be missed?”
Marielle sniffed. “Marc left for Biarritz after we dined midday. He said he would be gone a couple of weeks. I told Etienne that I was going to visit the Bouchards and inform them of Jean-Paul’s death. Robert is sending a message that I will stay with them overnight. I won’t be missed until sometime tomorrow when I don’t return.”
Ashby thought quickly. “Then match my pace. I want to be on our ship at Pauillac and down the Gironde before they even think to look for you this way.”
He spurred on Lightning, knowing she would follow. He only hoped he did the right thing.
For the both of them.
Chapter Twelve
Marielle wanted to fling her arms about Ashby, grateful that he decided to allow her to accompany him. She even hoped for a quick kiss when they reunited but he’d taken the situation seriously and had been all business. They’d ridden at a good clip and now approached Pauillac.
Ashby signaled her and they drew up. “I will take you to the ship first. Do not speak to anyone, either in town or once you are on board.”
He gave her a sympathetic look. “I must sell Jezebel. There’s no room for her aboard.”
She winced at his words but knew the wisdom of them. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. She hadn’t known if he would aid her escape from France or not. She couldn’t imagine what lay ahead. He’d made no declarations of love. Given no offer of marriage, though he knew her to be free now.
Maybe she had assumed too much. What had been the blossoming of love for her might only have been a mere dalliance on his part. And yet, when she thought back to those kisses, his touch—he had not faked the deep emotion behind them. She hoped once they were on English soil he would press his suit. Nothing stood between them now.
If not, the casket filled with precious jewels would provide for her future. She would make her own way. It might be in a foreign land but anywhere would be better than a life in bondage to Marc de la Tresse.
“I understand,” she told him. “Thank you for warning me.”
The remaining minutes before they reached the city were hard for Marielle. Jezebel had become her closest friend since Arielle. She’d made no friends during all those years in the convent. She did see Cadena Bouchard sporadically ever since she’d come to Monteville as a bride but it wasn’t the same. Jezebel listened to her problems and showered her with unconditional love. Marielle regretted having to leave the horse behind.
They entered the city. She tried to curb her excitement. It had been years since she’d been in a place so large. The teeming crowds, the smells from the stalls, the buildings packed closely together—it all reminded her of her past. She thought how she and Arielle had played hide and seek in their youth and grew wistful for such simpler times, two girls laughing in the endless day that stretched before them.
Ashby led them to the harbor. He waved at a man aboard a small ship.
“Wait here a moment.” He climbed from his mount and looped the reins around a post before joining the man on deck. They spoke for some minutes. The man looked around Ashby at her several times, curiosity etched on his craggy features. Finally, they shook hands. She assumed they struck some bargain regarding her passage.
Marielle untied the leather bag containing the casket. Ashby rejoined her, helping her from the saddle. She knew she would be sore after such a long ride.
“Say your goodbyes. Bartholomew has given me an idea of where to sell your horse.”
She nodded and turned to stroke the palfrey. “Be a good girl,” she whispered to the animal. “Thank you for being my friend.” Before she broke down in tears, she turned away and asked, “Where am I to go?”
Ashby secured Jezebel’s reins and then took her arm. “You’ll board now. Bartholomew will show you where to stay.”
He gave her arm a squeeze. “It’s a very small boat, Marielle. I am afraid the quarters are tight, indeed. Practically every bit of space is used up for the return.” He gave her an apologetic smile and turned to go.
“Wait,” she told him. She returned to Jezebel and gave the horse one quick pat, tears stinging the backs of her eyes. Without a backward glance, she walked toward the ship. The man called Bartholomew gave her a helping hand.
“Good day to you, my lady. I hear you’re going to England to visit the master at Stanbury. You’ll love England. The greenest grass you’ve ever seen and birds that sing like the Blessed Virgin.”
He led Marielle past a few crewmen and down below.
“Here’s the place you’ll stay. Sir Ashby will be back before you know it. There’s no headwind to speak of and that’s a good sign.”
Marielle had no idea what Bartholomew spoke of but thanked him and closed the cabin door. The cramped room was full of chests and boxes stacked sky high. She saw nowhere to sit—not a chair or bed in sight. She wondered about the canvas strung from two ends. Might that be something to sit upon?
She placed her casket atop a large crate and tried to figure out how to best approach the canvas. She finally decided backing into it would be the best idea. She tried it, only to find her feet swept up in the air. She was thrown back and gripped the sides in panic.
The canvas started swaying gently, rocking her as if she were a small babe. Marielle saw the good sense in it. This is what the men must sleep upon when at sea. It enfolded her and, for the first time since Jean-Paul’s death, she felt safe. She relaxed and closed her eyes.
*
“Marielle?”
A gentle shaking interrupted the most wonderful dream.
“Go away,” she muttered, ready to sink back into sleep.
She was peacefully drifting off again when a retching sound startled her. She sat straight up. She saw Ashby bent over a wooden bucket. Immediately, she slid from her canvas cocoon and went to him.
He lifted his head and wiped his mouth with a cloth. She’d never seen a man’s face look green in her life.
“You are ill,” she cried.
He smiled feebly. “It happened on the way over. I have heard it does to some. I have been up and down rivers before, but the Channel is much rougher.”
He gagged again and bent over the bucket for several minutes. Marielle stood helplessly nearby, not sure what she should do. Gradually, she noticed the boat’s movement, the swell of water under them, rocking them gently.
Ashby raised his head once more. “I think that’s all of it,” he said with great effort. “I beg your forgiveness at such a disruption.”
He made a motion to go but Marielle doubted he would make it very far.
“Come.” She guided him over to the canvas. “Lie down. I shall see about finding you something to drink.”
He grimaced. “I do not want anything now. Except for the bloody boat to stop pitching and lurching so.”
Marielle wondered why he put up such a fuss over so little motion. She rather enjoyed the feel of the boat swaying. She stood by his side, holding his hand as he once held hers after she’d carelessly ridden Jezebel too fast.
Ashby protested at first, saying he would go to the cabin next door. Marielle put her foot down and insisted he stay with her for now. She settled him upon the hammock and he fell into a restless sleep. The greenish color faded and then he looked pale as a ghost. A knock at the cabin door interrupted her worries.
Bartholomew stepped in. “Got two tankards of ale and a bit of bread and cheese for you.” He looked over at Ashby. “Poor lad. Same thing on the way over. It’s always the big blokes that you’d not expect it from.”
“What is wrong with him?”
Bartholomew smiled. “He’s got seasickness, my lady. Fells the best of them. Sir Ashby will be fine once we dock. Some just can’t take it out on the open sea, that’s all. You seem fit and fair as a good sailor should be.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I am not bothered at all by the boat’s motion.”
“Well, you might try and bathe his face with some water. It’s in the barrel over here. Just pop the top so. If he can get a bite of bread or two down him, it will help settle his belly some. I’ll check on you later.” Bartholomew left the cabin.
Marielle found the water. A small dipper floated inside the barrel. Lacking any better ideas, she tore a small piece off her kirtle. Her tunics and surcoat covered it as it was. She used this to soak up some water and wrung it almost dry.
Returning to Ashby’s side, she bathed his face with the damp cloth, repeating her action several times. He continued to sleep, a slight scowl marring his handsome face. She brushed his blond locks from his forehead, feeling for fever. He had none.
After a few minutes he woke, groaning, griping his side.
“You need to sip a bit of water,” she told him. “Bartholomew says it will make you feel better.”
He looked at her skeptically but raised up and let her bring the dipper to his lips. She encouraged him to drink slowly and was proud that she got a few bites of bread down him.
His seasickness continued for the entire journey. Marielle had no idea how long they were in the cabin. She could hear the wi
nd whistling at times. At other times, the swell of the waves caused the boat to pitch to and fro. Those were the worst times. Ashby would motion for the pail. He was not the strong knight with the witty tongue that so impressed her that first day at Monteville.
Yet even in illness, he possessed a boyish appeal, as well as expressing his need for her. She talked to him, telling him a few stories about her days terrorizing the nuns at Sisters of Merciful Heart. Twice, she even sang to him, one a lullaby she remembered from childhood and the other a song she’d heard the peasants singing in the vineyards at harvest time. She even hummed some of the chants from the chapel services she’d endured as a child.
Marielle didn’t know how much of this he heard. Ashby drifted in and out. Twice more, Bartholomew brought ale and bread, liberally dashed with encouragement.
“He’ll be fine, my lady. He’s a strong one. We’ve just happened on rough seas this crossing. He wasn’t half as bad on the way over. I think staying on land in the future would be my best advice to him.”
The sailor was the only crewman Marielle saw. The one time she’d indicated that she might go up for some fresh air, Bartholomew stopped her.
“No, my lady. Sir Ashby would have my hide scraped clean if I let you above.”
She was puzzled. “Why?”
The man shook his head. “It wouldn’t be right. Sailors are a rough lot. You want nothing to do with them. It’s better you stay safe and sound below with the master. We’ll be in London before you know it.”
Marielle went to the cabin next door that Ashby had referred to, only to find it more cramped than the one they occupied. It also had no hammock. She returned and tried to get some sleep leaning against the stack of chests but her back rebelled. Knowing Ashby would most likely be unaware of her presence, she climbed into the hammock next to him.
Unfortunately, she was very aware of him. Marielle had turned her back to him but as their weight hit the center together, it pushed them close. She doubted she would be able to fall asleep, thanks to Ashby’s very nearness. She didn’t lack for warmth, though. The ship was quite cold but he radiated a heat unlike any she’d ever known. She checked him again for fever until she realized this was his natural state. It made for a toasty time, especially after Bartholomew brought a blanket for them to share.
