For the first hour Marietta watched the nobles tilting with their fearsome lances, trying to unseat one another. Some of them went on to fight with heavy broadswords until one or the other asked for quarter. She applauded the winners when they came to take their bows. One knight vanquished all five of his opponents and was given a fine dagger with a jewelled hilt as his prize.
After the show of valour by the nobles there was a display of tumbling and dancing bears. Then the trumpets announced the contest for the silver arrow was about to begin.
The men were announced one by one. The Bastard of Rouen was the tenth man to present himself, and the cheers for him were deafening for he had won this prize twice before and it was obvious the people considered him their champion. He was a tall man, thickset, with a reddish beard and a scar at his temple.
He came to bow before the watching nobles, bowing his head to his father and to Marietta. She had an uneasy feeling, a trickle of ice sliding down her spine as she felt his gaze on her. Lifting her head proudly, she gave him a cool smile and saw a flicker of anger in his eyes.
The next man to present himself gave his name simply as Anton. He too was a tall man, strong with dark hair and grey eyes—and Marietta tingled as she knew him. He was Anton of Gifford, the son of the Marquis of Malchester: the man who had saved her on the Field of the Cloth of Gold. He was as she remembered, and yet he was so different. He looked older, stronger—his eyes cold and unsmiling as they moved over the assembled nobles and their ladies. He gave no sign of recognition, and she felt a little pang of disappointment as she realised that he did not know her.
She held back the rush of tears that suddenly threatened. How foolish of her to imagine that he might know her! Why should he? Too many years had passed, and she had changed. Something in her had known him instantly, despite the changes to his appearance, but he felt nothing.
She sat back, struggling to control her disappointment. Even if he had remembered her it could make no difference. She was married and had borne her husband a child. Nothing had changed, but her insides churned with emotions she could not control. That day had been enshrined in her memory as something magical, helping her through the worst days, helping her to do what she must.
The contest had begun. The men were lined up for the race, which started from a line in front of the dais and continued over the surrounding countryside, ending back at the same spot. Once the men had left the field on the start of their gruelling race, the nobles and their ladies were served with food and wine.
Marietta ate little. It was foolish, but much of her pleasure in the day had disappeared when she had looked into a pair of cold grey eyes and seen no flicker of recognition. In her dreams, which she had treasured, when they met again Anton of Gifford had smiled and told her that she had remained in his heart and mind all these years—but such dreams were foolish!
A cheer went up when the runners returned. She saw that two of them had far outpaced the others: neck and neck, they raced to the dais and arrived at precisely the same moment. Wild cheering for the Bastard of Rouen broke out as the crowd chanted his name.
The master of ceremonies held up his hand and the crowd quietened.
‘For the first event we have two winners, for they could not be parted. It is the first time this has happened and each has one talent to take forward.’
Some cheered wildly, others grumbled, for they had wanted the Bastard to win. However, the second contest was announced and the spear-throwing began. Each man had three throws. The first to throw was the Bastard, and his spear reached to the second marker. Another contestant stepped forward, his spear flying through the air to within a fraction of the Bastard’s. Three other men threw, but could not reach the second marker. Then Anton stepped forward. His arm went back and the spear flew through the air, almost reaching the third marker.
The Bastard stepped forward to throw again. His spear landed a fraction behind Anton’s; the next contestants could not reach even the second marker. Anton threw again, but this time he did not reach his first try.
People were calling out, cheering wildly as the Bastard stepped forward. He drew back his arm, putting all his effort into the final throw, and his spear went past Anton’s first marker by no more than a handspan. A huge cheer greeted his efforts, especially when none of the others could come near. Then silence fell as Anton stepped up. He drew back his arm and threw for the final time. The spear flew through the air and finished level with the Bastard’s.
There was a buzz of excitement as the crowd waited to hear who would be announced the winner. The master of ceremonies stood up, holding his hand up for silence.
‘On the third throw they are equal,’ he said. ‘But Anton threw further with his first spear. He is therefore the winner.’
Marietta was watching the Bastard’s face. He looked furious, for it meant that he could not now win the silver arrow. Only Anton could win this coveted prize, if he gained both the archery contest and the wrestling crown.
The archery came next. People were murmuring with excitement, for though some stayed loyal to their champion, others were willing the stranger on. It was known that archery was the Bastard’s weakest skill, and they wondered if Anton could win yet again. He could and did, easily.
Last came the wrestling. No one had ever beaten the Bastard of Rouen at wrestling. A hush fell over the crowd as the master of ceremonies stood up.
‘It has been decided that the contest shall be settled by three bouts between the Bastard of Rouen and Anton …’
Marietta gasped as she heard the announcement. Her gaze flew to the Bastard’s face. She saw the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes and knew that he was confident of winning this contest. She sat back, feeling that she could not bear to watch, for she did not wish to see Anton humbled. He was such a worthy champion, and she guessed that the Bastard meant to humble Anton if he could.
As the contest began, Marietta closed her eyes. She was sure that the Bastard would do his best to cripple or injure his opponent. Once she had seen a man suffer a broken arm, and she could not bear to see Anton hurt in this way. She was so tense that she thought she might faint.
Hearing the gasp of astonishment and a new buzz of excitement, Marietta opened her eyes to see that Anton had taken the first fall. Her gaze fell on the Bastard. She was shocked by the look of hatred in the man’s narrow-set eyes. He looked as if he would like to murder Anton!
Her heart beating wildly, Marietta sat forward to watch. The Bastard had never been beaten in this contest. Surely Anton could not best him again? She turned her nails into her hands as the two men came to grips. The Bastard was so strong, and he seemed to have Anton in his grip. He must win this time!
It happened so quickly that Marietta scarcely realised what had occurred. One moment the Bastard seemed to have Anton in an unbreakable hold, the next he was lying face down in the dirt, his arm twisted behind him and unable to move.
Wild cheers broke from the watching crowd. The nobles were on their feet applauding, the ladies threw scarves and flowers to the champion. A hush fell as the master of ceremonies stood up and announced Anton as the winner of the silver arrow.
Marietta’s husband stood up. It was his privilege to present the prize to the winner. She was shocked when he turned to her, presenting the silken cushion with the arrow.
‘Take it, Marietta,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Today my wife will present the winner with his trophy.’
Marietta hesitated, then picked up the arrow and went down the steps to where Anton was standing. She smiled as he made her an elegant bow, and a thrill went through her as she saw the gleam of triumph in his eyes. He might not recall the day he had saved her life, but he had been her champion since that time and she was delighted that he had won this prize.
‘You were a worthy winner, sir,’ she said. ‘I am proud to give you the silver arrow.’
‘I thank you, my lady,’ Anton said, inclining his head. For a moment his gaze intensified as he looked at
her, but no flicker of recognition showed in his eyes. ‘I am honoured.’ He turned and showed the arrow to the crowd, bowing as they cheered him.
Marietta turned to leave. She put her foot on the first step leading back to the benches where she had sat with her ladies, and then suddenly a dog came rushing towards her from nowhere. It was a huge fierce hound with a brindle coat, and his mouth was drawn back in a snarl. A scream left her lips as the hound sprang at her for no reason, sending her to the ground. Putting up her arms to protect herself, she felt its teeth graze her flesh, and then someone was there, pulling the hound away from her, whipping it with the flat of his sword. The sound of its howling as it fled from the angry avenger was terrible.
‘Lady, are you hurt?’
Half fainting, blood trickling from the wound to her arm, Marietta felt herself lifted in strong arms. She was being carried away from the scene. Dimly aware that it was the champion of the day who had saved her from the dog, she tried to thank him.
‘I need no thanks, lady,’ he said as he strode towards a tent. ‘That beast should be destroyed. I believe it was meant to attack me, not you.’
Marietta was feeling too faint to enquire more as she was set down on a pile of soft cloaks and silks in a tent she realised must be the one the knights used to change into their armour. The man she believed to be Anton of Gifford kneeled at her side. He took her arm and examined it, his fingers firm and gentle.
‘The beast merely grazed the skin,’ he said, and poured water from a flask onto a linen cloth, bathing her arm and wiping away the blood. ‘It will hurt for a day or so but there is no real harm done.’
‘Thank you. You saved my life.’ Marietta was beginning to revive. She wanted to confirm if he were indeed the young man who had saved her life once before, but before she could say anything more the tent flap was lifted and her husband entered together with the Bastard of Rouen.
‘Marietta, are you harmed?’ the Comte asked anxiously.
‘This knight acted promptly and drove off the beast,’ Marietta told him. ‘I was faint for a while, but I am feeling much better thanks to my brave rescuer. He has bathed the wound and I believe I have taken no harm.’
‘The brute should be put to death,’ her husband said, and glanced at the Bastard. ‘It belongs to Rouen. I have told him he must get rid of it after what it did to you.’
‘’Tis a hunting dog and knows no better,’ the Bastard muttered. Marietta saw him glance resentfully at the knight who had bested him, and felt an icy shiver down her spine. He would not forget this day!
Marietta stood up. She was still trembling, but felt better. ‘I am well enough to leave now, husband.’
‘If you are sure we shall leave at once.’ Comte de Montcrief turned to Anton. ‘You have my gratitude, sir. I hope that you will allow me to repay you in some way?’
‘I did only what any knight of honour would do, sir. I am glad to have been of service and need no repayment.’
‘Then I offer you friendship. If I may be of service to you, you have only to ask.’ The Comte offered his hand and they clasped hands. He turned back to Marietta. ‘Come, my dearest, take my arm. You must tell me if you feel faint and I shall help you.’
Marietta took his arm. At the door, she turned back and smiled at the knight who had saved her for the second time.
‘Thank you, sir. I shall not forget …’
He inclined his head to her but made no answer.
Anton felt a deep satisfaction as he walked away from the field. To become the champion and save a beautiful woman from a savage dog in one day was an achievement that sat well with him.
It was mere chance that he had entered the contest at all. He had told his men to wait for him at the inn, to guard his daughter and her nurse, but it was really because he’d wished to enter the contest incognito. He had been in no mood for the knightly display of skill. Had he wielded a weapon of war, he might in his present mood have struck too hard and killed his opponent.
When he’d seen the notice announcing the contest for the silver arrow he had been intrigued and amused, intending at first to be a spectator. Then he’d seen men lining up to enter the contest and something had driven him to sign his name. As a young man he had loved sport, and he had been the champion of many a fair. He had entered on a whim, unsure that he would excel in all the contests, but the years of training and exercise in the Spanish sunshine had kept him strong.
In the first race he had suddenly felt alive in a way that he had not since Isabella’s death. The black shadows had fallen away from him as he’d sped over the course. He had run for himself alone, and he had been surprised to discover that he had been one of the winners. The feeling had exhilarated him, giving him such pleasure that he had thrown himself into the rest of the contest with gusto.
He was laughing inside, because he had never thought to win the prize and was still surprised that he had thrown the great bear of a man who called himself the Bastard of Rouen.
Anton knew that in winning the wrestling so easily he had made himself an enemy. He shrugged. What did it matter? He would be in England within a couple of days and it was unlikely he would see the man again.
A frown creased his brow as he thought about the young woman who had presented him with the silver arrow. What was her name—the Comtesse de Montcrief? He had taken little notice of her until the dog attacked her, but when he had carried her to the tent to tend her wounds he had been tantalised by the scent of her hair, which had wafted towards him. He had felt as if he should know her.
Had they met before? Anton could not think it. It was years since he had been in France and that for but a brief time.
Surely not? A vague picture came into his mind. There had been a child … a young girl he had rescued from beneath the flailing hooves of her horse.
Anton could not be certain that the beautiful woman he had helped today was the young girl he had rescued from the hooves of a terrified horse all those years ago. It was unlikely that fate should bring them together twice in similar circumstances. He struggled to bring the earlier memory to mind but the child’s face was unclear; she had been forgotten in all that came after.
Anton was fairly certain that the dog had been ordered to attack. He was the most likely intended victim, because he had humbled Rouen in a sport in which he believed himself invincible. Surely he would have no reason to want to harm the wife of the Comte de Montcrief? He frowned as he wondered if he ought to have told the Comte of his suspicions.
Why did it matter? The woman’s husband was responsible for her protection. She was the wife of a powerful man, and could mean nothing to Anton. Besides, he had no wish to marry yet. When he did it would be to a deserving widow, an older lady, someone gentle and kind who would love his motherless daughter. The suspicion that Isabella had betrayed him with another man, and that the child she had carried with her to the grave had not been his, was like a bitter taste in his mouth. She had seemed so innocent and lovely when he wed her; how could he ever trust again?
‘I have written to the Bastard,’ the Comte told Marietta the next day when he came to her as she sat sewing in her solar. ‘He disappeared after the contest and I fear he was displeased that the prize went to another. I believe I must make my offer soon. I would not have him my enemy.’
‘I did not like the way he looked at me,’ Marietta said. ‘I believe he resents me. It is very strange that his dog should attack me.’
‘The brute was out of control and has been dealt with. Rouen resents the truth, which is that you have given me a legitimate son.’ The Comte sighed. ‘I was wrong to let him believe that he would succeed me here. I should never have recognised him—but my first wife could not bear a living child and I thought I might never have an heir.’
‘Then you must make your peace with him, husband.’
‘Yes, I must.’ The Comte smiled at her. ‘You were much admired yesterday, my love. I think that we should give a feast for our neighbours soon—perhaps a
fter the Bastard has visited us.’
‘Yes, we should …’
Marietta held her sigh inside until her husband left her. It was ridiculous to feel so unhappy. Nothing had changed just because she had seen a man she had never thought to see again.
Anton of Gifford. The years had been kind to him, for he had grown stronger and more handsome. Watching him as he won the silver arrow had made her realise all that she had lost, but had the incident with the dog not happened she would probably have found it easy to forget. The memory of him driving off the brute and tending her arm was something that would live with her for a long time. It seemed that it was her destiny to be rescued by Anton of Gifford, for she was certain in her own mind that it was he.
She shook her head. It was useless to repine. She had never had a chance of being the wife of the man she admired. She knew nothing of him other than that he was bold and strong. He might be a rogue! He had certainly not declared his true title when he entered the contest. Marietta must never think of him again. She must be satisfied with what she had, and, indeed, most of the time she was content.
It was just that she could not help wondering where Anton was now and what he was doing …
‘I am glad to be home, Father,’ Anton said as his father came down the stairs to greet him in the large hall of their home. ‘I have done all His Majesty bade me, but Spain no longer hath anything to hold me. I believe I shall do better in England.’
‘I am glad to see you home,’ the Marquis said, and his expression was grave. ‘I was sorry for your loss, my son. To lose a wife and child so young was a great tragedy.’
A Wayward Woman Page 26
