‘You think he will force himself on me?’
‘I think he intends to marry you, my lady. Sandro heard him say as much to Drogbar. It is the only way he can claim your husband’s lands legally. At the moment he holds them by force—but if the King sends a force against him he must sur render.’
‘You sent my message to the King?’
‘It was done at once, my lady, and in secret. The messenger has not yet returned with a reply.’
‘The Bastard needs me and my son for the moment, which is why we are still alive,’ Marietta said. ‘But if my son should have an accident … should die in his sleep.’
‘The Bastard of Rouen would be accepted as the new Comte de Montcrief. He has his father’s blood; the master accepted him—would have left the manor to him had you not given him a child.’
‘Then if my son were dead he would have all that he craves.’ Marietta looked at her, her fear plainly writ on her face. ‘I must take the boy to safety, Rosalind.’
‘Where will you go, my lady?’
‘I do not know.’ There was no one in France to help her! For a moment she thought of the man who had once saved her life—the man to whom she had presented the silver arrow. If only he were here! Her instinct told her that he would protect any lady in need. Yet what right had she to ask for his help? Who could she turn to in her need?
Marietta paced the floor, her eye falling on a scarf that had been sent her as a Christmas gift the previous year. ‘I shall go to my father’s second cousin in England! Lady Claire Melford has asked me to visit so many times. She will help me, and perhaps her husband might intercede with the English King to help me regain my son’s birthright.’
‘If you run away they may say that you murdered the Comte by witchcraft and were afraid of the consequences.’
‘If I stay I may be forced to marry the man I believe truly committed that foul act …’
‘My lady.’ Rosalind stared at her in horror. ‘You think the Bastard murdered his father? If that is true.’
‘He will stop at nothing to gain what he wants.’ Marietta lifted her head, her face proud. ‘I must go down, for he will send an escort to force me if I do not—and I would not have Jeanne beaten, though she thinks me a witch.’
‘She cannot!’
‘I am certain she believes it. The Bastard has her in the palm of his hand. I do not trust her, Rosalind.’
‘You can trust Sandro and me. I swear that we will serve you. We would both give our lives for you and the baby, my lady.’
‘Thank you,’ Marietta said. ‘I believe we must leave as soon as we can arrange it. We shall not be able to take much, but I have some jewels and a little gold that my husband had hidden in his room.’
‘If we can get to England you will be safe.’
‘I pray that it will be so,’ Marietta said. ‘Now I must go, before I am taken to the hall by force …’
She walked from the chamber, her head high. Rosalind was not the only one who had seen the look in the Bastard’s eyes. His lust was hot and it was the only reason he had not already given her up as a witch. He wanted her. If he could have her as his wife his claim to the manor would be much stronger, and once he had tired of her he would dispose of her as he had her husband. Marietta knew that her life, and that of her son, hung in the balance. She must escape before morning or it might be too late.
Anton reined in as he approached the Castle of Montcrief. King Henry had sent him to the Comte with a message, which he believed was of some importance. A return to France was not something he had wished for, but when he had learned what the King desired he had not felt able to refuse him. And at the castle of Montcrief he was bound to see the lady he had rescued from that brute of a dog.
He was aware of a flicker of something that might have been anticipation. Perhaps during this visit he might learn if the lady who had presented him with the silver arrow was truly the child he had rescued that day on the Field of the Cloth of Gold. She had been much in his mind of late, though he was not certain why. When the King had asked his favour it had seemed as if Destiny had spoken.
He sat his horse, looking at the castle for some minutes before giving the order to move on. His instincts were telling him that all was not as it should be. He could see that the drawbridge was down and the flag was flying at half-mast. Men were on the battlements, but he was not challenged as he and the ten men-at-arms he had brought with him clattered over the bridge into the inner bailey. Anton was clad in armour, his head covered with a helmet. His standard bearer was carrying his own pennant and another that bore the arms of the Tudors, showing that he was an envoy from the English court.
‘If anyone questions your mission, tell them merely that I have sent greetings to an old friend,’ the King had instructed before Anton left the English court. ‘You must deliver my letter into the hands of Comte de Montcrief himself. If for any reason he is not there, you will return it safely to me. The letter is writ in code, but if any other should decipher it, it might cause further trouble between England and her enemies.’
‘I shall do as Your Majesty asks.’ Anton had bowed his head. ‘I shall present my credentials and keep your letter close to my heart until I meet the gentleman himself.’
Now, looking about him, Anton wondered at the lack of order. Where were the men-at-arms training? Where was the steward who should have been told of his coming and been here to meet him? Where were the villagers bringing carts of food and supplies? Instead of order, there was an air of neglect about the place, as if the servants did not care to obey their master. It was not what he would have expected of the powerful lord he had seen at the tourney.
The castle looked almost deserted, apart from a few house-carls in the courtyard. He summoned one to him and the man came hurriedly.
‘Forgive us, your honour,’ he said, cringing as if he expected a blow. ‘The steward is with the lord and everyone else is out searching for her …’
‘Searching for whom?’
‘The witch of Montcrief. She that murdered her gentle husband by foul witchcraft.’
Anton frowned as he remembered the beautiful lady who had given him his prize and a chill ran down his spine. ‘Do you speak of the Comte’s wife? By what right do you call her a witch?’
‘You! To the kitchens, or I’ll have you flogged until the skin falls from your back!’
A man had come striding into the courtyard. The Bastard of Rouen! Anton knew him instantly and was immediately suspicious. What had happened here? How came such a brute to be the master of Montcrief’s castle? The house-carl had run away as fast as his legs would take him, looking as if the Devil himself were after him. It might be best not to let the Bastard realise that he was speaking to the man who had bested him at the tourney. Anton knew that he looked different in his armour and could only hope he was not recognised.
‘Sir, I have come to bring the Comte de Montcrief greetings from Henry Tudor, King of England.’
‘Your messenger arrived an hour since,’ the Bastard replied, eyes narrowed, calculating. Anton had brought ten of his men into the bailey with him, but more were camped outside, waiting his return. ‘You are welcome to stay here with your men, my lord—but I fear your journey has been wasted unless you carry a message you may pass to me? I am the master here now.’
‘The message is in my head. It is merely that Henry wishes to congratulate the Comte on having a fine heir—and to assure him of friendship should he visit England.’
‘My father died some five days ago. He was killed by witchcraft and poison—and the culprit was his wife. She has stolen her husband’s son and fled, taking gold and jewels with her. Most of my men are out, searching the countryside for her and the servants who assisted her flight. They will suffer the same fate as their evil mistress when they are caught.’
‘Witchcraft is a wicked crime,’ Anton said, resisting the urge to wipe that look of satisfaction from the other’s face. ‘Has the witch been proved?’
&
nbsp; ‘She escaped before she could be put to the test. I was at first deceived in her, for she pretends to be modest and God-fearing. However, her flight is proof enough. She had heard the rumours that she was to be accused of her husband’s murder and fled in the night before she could be apprehended.’
‘I see that you have much to occupy you,’ Anton said. His instincts told him that this man was not to be trusted. He did not like him, and caution told him that it would be wiser not to take his hospitality. His men would prefer to rest under the stars rather than be murdered as they slept. ‘I am sorry for your trouble, and I shall move on rather than cause you more bother.’
He remounted and signalled to his men to follow him from the castle. Anton was aware of a prickling sensation at the nape of his neck. Something was wrong here. He could not tell how much truth there was in the tale of the lady murdering her husband, but he could not believe that she was a witch. Many women were hanged or burned to death as witches, because they had failed the barbaric acts that put them to the test and proved their guilt. The thought of such vile cruelty left a bitter taste in his mouth. He shuddered as he pictured the woman he had seen at the tourney being tortured and then burned in the flames.
He could do nothing to help her. Nor should he if she were truly the murderer of her husband. Yet he could not believe it of the woman he had seen at the tourney. Something was wrong here!
His mission was at an end. Instead of staying here overnight he would turn north towards the home of Lord de Montfort. It would mean one night more upon the road, but his aunt Anne’s husband would welcome him and he would deliver a message to their son Sebastien. King Henry had charged him to invite his cousin to visit the English court.
Anton frowned as he gave the order to move north. He would be glad to put a few leagues between him and the upstart who claimed that he was the new lord of Montcrief. There had been a look of slyness about the man that made him wonder just what was behind his invitation to stay the night. Anton had no doubt that he and his men would have been killed as they slept, perchance to be robbed for their armour and possessions. He was glad to leave, and could not help but think of the woman who had been forced to flee her home. He remembered how beautiful she had looked that day at the tourney. The wife of a powerful noble, she had had everything she could want—and now she was a fugitive in fear of her life.
Marietta screamed as she saw the small party of men riding towards them fast. She knew the pennant well. These were the Bastard of Rouen’s men and they would catch her and take her back with them. She had brought her fate on herself by defying the Bastard, but her son was innocent.
‘Take Charles and run that way,’ she said to Rosalind. ‘I shall go this—perhaps if they come after me, you and Charles may get away …’
‘I cannot leave you, my lady.’
‘Go! I command it!’ Marietta cried. ‘I charge you to take care of my son. He must live even if I die …’
She gave her woman a little push, but then she saw it was too late. A larger party of men were coming towards them from the opposite direction. They were caught between them and there was no escape. She screamed despairingly and began to run towards the woods. Perhaps if she could reach them she might escape for long enough to hide her child. Even if she died, Charles must live.
The sound of yelling and screaming made her glance back over her shoulder. She was stunned as she saw that the larger group of men seemed to be attacking the Bastard’s soldiers. What was happening? Who were the strangers, and why were they fighting the rogues that would have taken her prisoner?
Instead of fleeing into the woods to hide, as she had planned, she stood, her heart beating frantically as she watched the fight.
After a short skirmish, the men she feared had turned tail and were running for their lives. Marietta stood still as one of the strangers rode up to her; her heart was pounding and she wondered if her last moment had come. She pulled her shawl over her head, trying to hide her face. She was frightened. Did these men know who she was—had they saved her because they wished to sell her to the Bastard for gold?
‘You are safe now, mistress,’ the knight said, and raised his visor, revealing his face. Marietta’s heart stopped as she knew him. For a moment relief flooded through her. It was Anton of Gifford—but would he remember her? Surely he must after that day at the tourney! Would he believe her innocent if she told him her story? She pulled her shawl tighter around her face, hoping that he would not recall that she had given him the silver arrow or the incident with the savage dog. ‘Come, I shall take you up with me.’
‘No …’ Marietta hung back. She hugged the child to her. She was nervous, because she did not know how he would react if he knew who she was and the crimes of which she stood accused. ‘Please, allow me to go on my way.’
‘If you do not come with us those villains may return. Where are you travelling to, mistress?’ her rescuer asked. His eyes were narrowed and intent as he gazed down at her. ‘We go north, to the estate of my uncle Lord de Montfort. Then we will travel back to England.’
‘I was on my way to England myself,’ Marietta told him. ‘I need to reach the coast by nightfall.’
‘Then we shall take you some part of your way. I am Anton of Gifford, mistress. I shall take you to safety, and then we shall discuss what you should do in the future …’
Had he recognised her? Did he know that she had been forced to flee her home? Marietta trembled inwardly. So far he had been kind, but what would he do if he knew that she had been accused of witchcraft and murder? It would be best if they parted before he discovered the truth.
‘You saved our lives, but if you set us down when we have put some distance between us and those rogues we shall do well enough.’
‘Will you not tell me your name, mistress?’
Marietta hesitated. ‘It is Marie—Marie de Villiers.’
She saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Had he remembered her? Would he denounce her as a wicked murderess?
‘Come then, Mistress Villiers,’ he said, and offered his hand. ‘We waste time and night falls …’
Marietta stood still as he dismounted and lifted her to the saddle, remounting so swiftly that she almost fell as the great horse moved forward. She had slipped the babe inside the shawl she had wrapped around her head and body, leaving her hands free so that she could hold on to the knight’s cloak. The knights were regrouping after routing the Bastard’s rogues. She saw that one of them, a man with a fearful scar on his face, had taken Rosalind up behind him, and Sandro was riding the pony they had brought with them, their few possessions strapped to his back. It seemed that she had no choice but to go with them.
Sitting behind Anton of Gifford, Marietta was aware of mixed emotions. How long had she dreamed of meeting this man again? Yet now it had happened she had the shadow of murder hanging over her.
Anton called a halt as the gates and wall that bounded the estate of Lord Simon de Montfort came into view. He dismounted and signalled to his men to do the same. He had brought the man and two women this far, and he believed they must now be safe enough to continue their journey. He assisted the woman he had taken pillion to the ground and gazed down at her. He had known her the moment he looked into her face. She was the woman who had given him the silver arrow at the tourney—the wife of the late Comte de Montcrief, the woman whose perfume had haunted his senses since he held her in his arms. So why had she given him a false name? Did she think that he would betray her to the Bastard of Rouen? Did she even remember giving him the silver arrow?
The questions chased each other through his mind as he considered what he should do now. She had asked to be allowed to go on alone, but if he abandoned her she and her servants would be recaptured within days.
Deciding not to press her for the truth, or reveal that he knew she had lied about her identity, he told her, ‘My aunt will give us shelter for the night. You are safe now, lady.’
‘I thank you for your kindness, b
ut we travel to the coast for we mean to take ship for England. I should not wish to trouble your aunt.’
‘It will be no trouble. You are weary and can go no further this night, Mistress Villiers. Rest here and I shall escort you to the coast in the morning. You will be safer with us.’
‘No, no, sir. We should go on.’ Marietta hung her head, seeming afraid. Did she think that he would denounce her as a witch? ‘I think we should not put you to more trouble, sir. Just allow us to leave and we shall delay you no more.’
Anton looked down at her. She was pale, and she looked exhausted. He felt something stir inside him. This woman could not be guilty of murder! As for the charge of witchcraft—he had no patience with such nonsense.
‘You will stay here this night,’ he said. ‘My aunt will give you a room where you may rest and tomorrow we shall go on board my ship.’
‘No. I must go.’ Marietta tried to pull away from him, but gave a little cry and stumbled. Anton saw that she was faint from hunger or exhaustion, and caught her in his arms before she fell.
When Marietta came to herself once more she was in a small chamber that might belong to a servant of some importance. It was clean, and the sweet-smelling sheets on the bed were fresh, though of a coarse cloth that felt hard to someone who had been used to the finest of linen and silk. She moaned slightly and someone came to her, bending over to apply a cool cloth to her head.
‘You fainted, mistress,’ Rosalind told her. ‘It has all been too much for you—and you have not eaten properly for two days. Lady de Montfort has sent you soup and bread. Will you not eat a little?’
Marietta sat up. Her head was aching, but she could smell the beef broth and it was good. She was suddenly aware of a ravenous hunger.
‘My son, Charles—where is he?’
‘Lady de Montfort took him. She says that she will feed and care for him until you are better. She likes children, and she has but one son who is full grown.’
A Wayward Woman Page 28
