She must think of the good she had done, Marietta decided. Her future was not what she would have wished, but she must do her duty. She would be a good wife to the Comte and bear his children—and she would try to forget that once a young man had made her long for so much more…
Chapter One
France 1525
‘Marietta.’ Comte de Montcrief greeted his wife with a smile as she entered his chamber, carrying a pewter cup and a small flask containing a dark liquid. She grew more beautiful with every day, her red-gold hair like threads of silken sunbeams and her eyes more brilliant than any jewel. ‘You never fail to bring my medicine when I need it. I do not know how I should have managed without you this past winter. I am sure that without your nursing, my dear wife, I should have died.’
‘I know this eases the tightness in your chest far better than the mixture the apothecary sent you, my lord. I believe the fluid on your chest is easing, is it not?’
‘Yes. I grow stronger every day, thanks to you, my love. I was blessed when your father gave you to me, Marietta.’
‘I have been blessed in giving you a son,’ Marietta replied. ‘I failed twice, and thought it was God’s will that we should not have a child—but our little Charles flourishes. He has passed his first year, and as you know too well ‘tis the first few months that are so dangerous for vulnerable babes.’
‘You have given me a fine heir, but I hope he will not inherit too soon.’ The Comte frowned. ‘It worried me when I was ill, for though I know you are both brave and wise, it would be hard for you to hold the castle against the barons who might seek to take it. The nobles are a greedy rabble, Marietta. If I should die before our son reaches his maturity I have left the care of him and my estate to you, to hold for our son until he is old enough to take it—but I would urge you to choose a husband as soon as you may decently marry. I have no doubt that you will have many offers, but choose wisely. You must take a man with fortune enough that he will not covet our son’s inheritance—and one who will treat you well.’
‘Please, my lord, do not speak of such things to me,’ Marietta begged. ‘I am not sure that I would wish for another husband. You have been good to me, and to my late father.’
‘Your poor father suffered greatly towards the end, and I was pleased that you should nurse him here in our home. I would do anything to please you. I am too old for you, Marietta. I offered for you when your father told me of his need—but I think I have not been fair to you. You should have had a fine young husband to bed you and give you many sons. It lies heavy on my conscience that I took your youth and squandered it when you might have had so much more.’
‘Hush, my lord.’ Marietta held the cup out to him. ‘Drink this and ease yourself. You have been a kind husband, and many are not. I am content with my life, especially since we have our son.’
The Comte smiled indulgently. ‘You have been a good wife. I shall buy you a present. What would you like?’
He took her hand and she felt the press of the heavy gold ring he wore on the middle finger of his left hand. It had a huge cabochon ruby and was very fine.
‘I ask for nothing but your affection, my lord—but if you will give me something, let it be a lyre. The one I have has cracked and is no longer sweet in tone.’
‘You shall have the finest that can be bought,’ the Comte said, and kissed her cheek. ‘And perhaps a ring for your finger too. Now, go about your business, Marietta. I would sleep.’
Marietta sighed as she made her way to her solar in the south-facing turret of the castle. When she had married her husband he had given her all the rooms in this tower, so that her ladies might be there to serve her. She had a bedchamber, a chamber where she could sit with her ladies and sew, and there was another chamber where her clothes were kept and her ladies slept on pallets that were stowed away during the day.
Montcrief seldom disturbed her these days. He had always been considerate. Marietta believed that if she had given him a son the first time she had conceived he would not have troubled her again. She knew now that he felt he had wronged her by taking her to wife. The difference in their ages had shown more as the years passed; he was too old for her, and his health had deteriorated suddenly after a fall from his horse. They had been fortunate that she had managed to produce a healthy heir. Her son, to the joy of both his parents, thrived.
Marietta had long since ceased to regret her marriage. She enjoyed being the chatelaine of a fine castle and ran her home with ease. Her child had brought her great joy and made her sewing a pleasure, for she liked to see the boy dressed in fine gowns and spent hours at her embroidery.
Yet Montcrief was too old, and although Marietta loved him it was more the love she would give to a dear uncle or friend. However, she had never thought of betraying him… except for once or twice at the start, when the picture of a handsome Englishman had popped into her head as she lay beside her husband.
It was nearly five years since the day she had almost been trampled beneath the hooves of that horse. Marietta sometimes wondered where Anton of Gifford was, and what he had done in all those years. She imagined him living on a fine estate in England. She knew that the countryside was beautiful there for her mother had told her. Baron Villiers had married an English lady of great beauty but little fortune. Jane, Lady Villiers, had been a sweet lady, and had taught her daughter much before she died.
Marietta knew that a distant cousin of her father’s had married an English gentleman. Claire Melford had sent a letter when she had learned of Marietta’s marriage, and Marietta had written to her a few times over the years. Claire had asked if they would visit, but Montcrief was always too busy. He went often to the French court. At the start he had taken Marietta with him, but when she’d had her first miscarriage she had asked that she be allowed to stay at home. Now that she had her son, she might accompany her husband next time he went.
She entered her chamber, glancing at the child who lay sleeping in his crib. Charles was resting well, his chubby face flushed and glowing with health. He had recently been weaned and no longer needed the wet nurse’s milk. Bending down to kiss his brow, Marietta thought that she must count her blessings. She had thought that her life was finished when she came here as a bride, but she had made the best of it and was happy enough. Only now and then did she allow herself to think of the young man who had saved her life. For one moment she had glimpsed how sweet life might be, but that was mere fancy, a romantic notion that she had put away as she became a woman and her girlish dreams faded.
Anton bent to lay a single yellow rose on Isabella’s grave. She had been buried with her unborn child these six months gone. Not one day had passed in all these months when Anton had failed to blame himself for his wife’s death. It was because of him that she lay beneath the earth, her young life extinguished.
‘Forgive me!’ he cried. ‘Sweet lady, forgive me, I beg you!’
Tears ran down his cheeks for the guilt was strong. If he had not flown at her in a jealous rage that last day would she have gone walking and fallen, striking her head against a stone at the foot of steep steps? She had died instantly, and her unborn child with her, for her body had not been found until it was too late and the physicians could save neither her nor the son she’d carried.
When they married, Anton had believed himself to be passionately in love with his wife. However, something had changed between them after the birth of their first child. From the start Isabella had shown little response to his lovemaking. He had thought it was simply her innocence, but after their daughter was born she had complained of headaches, begging to be left to sleep alone. The realisation that his wife did not love or want him had been hard to accept at first. But gradually he’d discovered that he no longer felt anything for her, and understood that the marriage had been a mistake. Divorce had been impossible, for Isabella had been a Catholic and Anton’s strong sense of duty, both to his wife and his daughter, had driven him to make the most of what he had.
For months he had done his best to please Isabella, and then one night she had come to him in his bed and asked him to love her. He had responded with warmth and pleasure, believing and hoping that they could begin to build something worthwhile that would give them both a measure of happiness. When she had told him she was with child once more Anton had been delighted. He loved his daughter, and hoped for a son, but a little over a month before Isabella’s death he was told something in an unsigned letter that made him suspect she had betrayed him with another man. He had carried the nagging doubt inside him for weeks, reluctant to believe that the tale was true.
It must be a lie! Surely it could not be true? His mind had twisted and turned, seeking a way out of his torment, remembering and analysing. His wife had suffered so much during her months of childbearing, always complaining of sickness or discomfort, hardly able to bear the touch of his hand on hers.
The uncertainty had tormented him beyond bearing. In the end he had asked Isabella if the child she carried was his. The look on her face had been such that he had felt as if she had struck a knife to his heart.
‘You can ask that of me?’ she said, in a voice that was so faint he could scarce hear it. ‘You think I would betray you—betray my honour?’
Anton seized her wrist so fiercely that she cried out. ‘Tell me, is this story true or a lie?’
‘Believe what you will,’ Isabella said, her face proud. ‘Unhand me, sir. You hurt me. Remember the child I bear, for he is yours…’
‘Isabella …’ Anton cried as she walked away, her gown making a swishing sound on the marble floors of their Spanish palace. ‘Forgive me. It was told to me and I could not forget …’
Isabella did not look back. The next time Anton saw her, she was lying at the foot of some stone steps leading to the sunken gardens, her neck broken.
Anton had wept over her dead body, but it was too late. He was the murderer of his wife and child! Yet he could make amends—must make amends for the wrong he had done his wife.
In his agony over Isabella’s death he had neglected Madeline, his beautiful daughter, who was now almost eighteen months old. He had loved her from the moment of her birth, but for months he had scarcely seen her, leaving her to the care of her nurse Lily—an Englishwoman who had come to them after the death of her Spanish husband.
Anton’s expression was bleak as he straightened from kneeling by the grave. He could not bring Isabella back, but he would devote himself to the care of her daughter.
He was tired of living in this country, though he was well liked at court and he spoke the language fluently. Isabella had helped him, laughing at his clumsy pronunciation at the start. Because of her he had done well in his position as the eyes and ears of England’s king, but now he wanted to return home. To stay here with his memories would make his life unbearable. Here in the home he had shared with Isabella he would be for ever haunted, seeing his dead wife’s face at every turn, her dark eyes accusing—always accusing.
He would return to England and make a new life for himself. Isabella had brought him a small fortune in jewels and gold when they married. Combined with the fortune he had won for himself, he could buy a large estate and build a house. Perhaps in time he might find a woman willing to share his life and give him an heir. He could never offer a woman love, for his heart had died with Isabella, but his wealth might be sufficient for some. It would not happen yet. His wounds were too raw to think of marriage. Until his home was built and a mother for Madeline was found he would give the child into his mother’s care.
All Anton wanted for now was peace. Perhaps in England he would be able to sleep.
‘You will come with me to the tourney?’ Montcrief looked pleased as Marietta inclined her head. ‘You will do me the honour, wife? You are even more beautiful than when we married. I shall be glad to have your company.’
‘You know it gives me great joy to ride—and now that you are well again we shall go out together more.’
‘We shall go riding tomorrow,’ he promised her. His steward approached, bearing a letter on a salver. ‘Excuse me.’ He broke the wax seal and frowned as he read what it contained. ‘In God’s name, what does he want here?’
‘Is something wrong, husband?’
‘Rouen asks if he may visit with us.’ The Comte looked annoyed. ‘I have told you that he is the bastard my mistress bore me when I was young? She was a woman of Rouen, and he takes her name instead of mine.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Marietta’s gaze was steady as she met his look. ‘I have heard it said that had I not given you a son you might have left your estate to the Bastard of Rouen—is that so?’
‘It was in my mind. I have told you that it needs a strong man to hold the castle and lands. Rouen is a good soldier—but coarse like his mother, and baseborn. He would not learn from books when he was young and thought only of fighting. Our son will learn to be noble of mind as well as birth. I want you to make sure of it if something should happen to me.’
‘You are well again, husband,’ Marietta said. ‘You will live long enough to teach Charles these things yourself.’
‘I intend to live to see him grown if I can,’ Montcrief agreed. ‘But I wish you to be aware of these things just in case. Life is never certain, my love. A man may die in many ways.’
‘That is true, for many die of poverty and sickness. I tend those I can at Montcrief, taking them cures and food—but the poor are everywhere.’
Montcrief nodded, but she could see his mind was elsewhere. ‘I suppose I must allow the visit. I do not wish for it, Marietta. He is a surly brute, and I do not quite trust him, but it is sometimes better to keep your enemy close.’
‘You think of Rouen as your enemy?’ Marietta was startled, for she had imagined that there was some affection between the two. Why else would Montcrief acknowledge him as his bastard?
‘Perhaps I chose the wrong word. At one time I was proud of the boy, but as he grew he became surly and wild, fell into bad company. I would have been loath to see him the master here, though had we not been blessed it might have come to that …’ Montcrief looked thoughtful. ‘He has learned to expect something of me. I dare say I must make him a gift, though not lands—but money. Yes, I may offer him five hundred silver talents. We may see him at the tourney. Perhaps the deal may be struck there.’
‘Five hundred silver talents is a great deal of money, my lord.’
‘You are right—but ‘tis a fraction of my fortune. Our son will inherit much more when I die, Marietta, and you will have your portion. You do not begrudge Rouen the peace offering?’
‘No, my lord. I would never seek to influence your judgement in such matters. You must do as you wish.’
‘Well, I think it best. I do not wish him to feel resentment against Charles. With his own small fortune he may buy land, if he wishes, or seek out a trade.’
Marietta smiled and left him to his thoughts, for they both had many duties.
‘We should stop for a while,’ Lily Salacosa told her master. ‘Madeline suffers from a fever. I do not think it serious, but constant travelling is making her tired and fractious. Could we not rest at the next inn for a day or two?’
Anton looked at the babe she held in her arms with concern. His daughter’s face was flushed, and when he touched her face she felt too warm.
‘Yes, we shall rest, mistress,’ he told her. ‘I sent ahead to take rooms at an inn near Rouen. We shall break our journey there. If Madeline continues to be unwell you must summon a physician to her.’
‘I think it merely teething, my lord, but she will recover sooner with a few days of rest.’
Anton smiled and bent to kiss his daughter’s forehead. She would be as beautiful as her mother one day—a fair, pale goddess who would set the hearts of her suitors racing. Anton knew that he had not been Isabella’s only suitor. She had seemed pleased to wed him, and happy in their marriage at first, but had she hidden her true feelings from him?
Anton squash
ed the thought. That way lay madness! His wife was gone and he would never know the truth. He must think only of the future and his beloved daughter.
A poster nailed to a tree caught his eye. A group of men were clustered about it excitedly, chattering and laughing. He called out to them in French, asking what was going on.
‘’Tis the day of the tourney,’ one of the men responded. ‘The winner of the games may win a silver arrow and all may enter. Only a man skilled in wrestling, throwing and archery can win. Men come from far and wide to enter.’
Anton nodded. As a youth he had often entered such tournaments, and the idea appealed to him. Since he must tarry a few days for the sake of his daughter, why should he not take a little time to amuse himself?
The day of the tourney had arrived. Marietta dressed in a gown of rich dark blue embroidered with silver beads and braiding, her long hair covered by a hood of matching cloth laced through with silver.
She felt proud to be riding by her husband’s side as they approached the field outside the city of Rouen, where the great fair was held every year. Nobles and freemen from all corners of the land would journey here, for the contest was a rich one. The young men entered contests of running, throwing a spear, shooting arrows at a barrel and wrestling. For the past weeks posters had been placed about the countryside, inviting all the young men to enter, and they would come from all over France. To win the silver arrow a man must be the winner of all four events. If the arrow was not won small prizes were given to the individual winners.
Marietta took her place in one of the most prominent seats, smiling as she looked about at the happy faces of the populace. The people were of good cheer, and they waved, calling out greetings to the nobles they knew or served as they arrived.
A fanfare of trumpets announced the arrival of the contestants and some twenty men rode into the arena; these were the nobles who had entered the tourney and would give the spectators a magnificent show. The battles were merely to show skill and strength, and there would be no fights to the death, as there had been in years gone by. Behind the nobles came the freemen, sons of noblemen and burghers, who were to enter the contest for the silver arrow.
A Wayward Woman Page 25
