‘You are speaking of Miguel?’
‘Yes …’ Anton sighed. ‘We were as brothers—or so I believed.’
‘You have doubts now concerning his loyalty?’
Anton’s eyes sought hers. ‘Do you wish me to speak plainly?’
‘I think it best.’
‘I have asked you to wed me. You know that there is something between us? You have felt it, as I have?’
‘Yes, I feel it.’
‘I saw Miguel’s face when you came down last night. I believe he is jealous, but I do not know why—whether it is because he wants you, or because he believes you will destroy the friendship we have had these past months.’
‘Why should I come between you and your friend?’
‘I do not know. I saw jealousy in his face as he looked at you—it may be that he wants you for himself.’
‘Yes, perhaps … there is something.’
‘You have sensed it yourself?’
‘I know there is something, but I do not know if he desires me or hates me.’
‘He gasped when he saw you, and the look on his face shocked me.’ Anton shook his head. ‘I shall not allow Miguel’s wishes to distract me. I must ask you for my answer now. Will you be my wife, Marietta? I do most sincerely wish it, if it will please you.’
‘Marry you …’ Marietta caught her breath, and then she was smiling, her doubts fading as she saw the look in his eyes. ‘Yes, I will marry you, Anton. I should be honoured—if it truly pleases you?’
‘Marriage to you would please me well,’ Anton said. He stood up and offered her his hand, bringing her to her feet. ‘However, we must be careful. I am not sure how Miguel will react to the news—and we still have to face the possibility that Rouen will come after you again. Miguel speaks of returning to Spain after we have dealt with the Bastard. I think that perhaps we should keep this agreement private for the moment.’ He gazed down at her. ‘I wanted to settle this between us. You know it is possible that I may be killed …’
‘I beg you not to say it! I do not think that I could bear it.’ Marietta caught back the words that would betray her heart. He had still not told her that he loved her. Only that he had cared for his wife and been devastated by her death. Perhaps he sought a marriage with a woman who had been married before, a woman who was well versed in the needs of a man, both in his bed and his home. She knew he needed a mother for his daughter. ‘I would have you live and be my husband, sir.’
‘It is my true wish,’ Anton told her. ‘Now, I must tell you something more. I have had word that there may be soldiers in the west woods, and I suspect they are the Bastard’s men. I am taking a party to search them out …’
Marietta’s nails curled into her palm, but she did not beg him to stay. It grieved her that he must leave so soon, but she knew that the future depended on what happened now.
‘Take care, Anton. I shall pray for you.’
‘Think of the future. It is what sustains me.’ Anton moved closer. He reached out and drew her into his arms, looking down at her for a moment before he bent his head to claim her lips. His kiss was soft, tender, deepening as he clasped her hard against him. For a moment the hunger and need was in his eyes as he looked at her. ‘Forgive me. I do not wish to leave you—but I must.’
‘God go with you …’
Marietta released him as he tore himself from her arms and walked away. She blinked as she felt the sting of tears. She loved him, and if they both lived she would wed him, but she was still not certain of her place in his heart.
Marietta spent some time playing with her son. When she went down to join the others for supper in the Great Hall it was almost dusk. She asked Claire if the men had returned from their search but she shook her head.
‘We have heard nothing,’ she said. ‘Harry went with them, because he said that if the rogues were on his land he wanted to deal with them. I thought they would have returned before this, for they cannot search in the dark—’ She broke off as there was a commotion in the hall and then Sir Harry came striding in. He had blood on his clothes and Claire gave a scream of fright, running to him, his name on her lips.
‘Stop,’ Harry commanded. ‘The blood is not mine, but Anton’s. He has been wounded in the side and has lost much blood. I came on ahead to warn you. The men are carrying him home.’
‘Anton is wounded?’ Marietta approached hesitantly, her face deathly white. ‘How did it happen? He is such a skilled warrior.’
‘They came upon us suddenly, about thirty of them out of the trees. We held our own easily and drove them off. The Bastard of Rouen was killed by Anton’s own hand, but somehow in the melee he was wounded.’ Harry frowned. ‘From the angle of the wound I think a sword was thrust into his side from behind. I doubt he knew his enemy was there. When all is confusion these things sometimes happen, but it is a cowardly way to strike a man—from behind, when he is fighting another.’
Marietta hardly heard his last words for they were bringing Anton. He was being carried on a gate taken hurriedly from its hinges, and his garments were soaked in blood.
Holding back the feeling of terror that swept over her, Marietta hurried to her chamber. She had healing herbs that would be needed, and she would use all she knew to save him—because if he died she did not care what became of her.
When she went to Anton’s chamber, Claire was already there. Anton was naked, for they had stripped away the bloodied raiment and the servants had brought water to wash the wound.
‘Let me help,’ Marietta said, and went to Claire’s side. She took the cloth and soaked it in the bowl, wringing out the bloody water and bathing the area around the wound. ‘The cut is deep, but I do not think it had penetrated a vital organ. See—the flesh does not open far. If we cleanse the wound and apply salves it will heal.’
‘Yes, that is what I thought,’ Claire agreed. ‘But wounds like this can turn bad so quickly, Marietta. Perhaps we should use the iron on him? The danger will come if the pus turns green.’
‘Sometimes the iron can do more harm than good with a fresh wound like this. I could sew the flesh together with silk thread. And I have some herbs that may help. I need to make an infusion to pack the wound. Have I permission to use your stillroom—and to apply the poultice?’
‘Do you understand what you do?’ Claire’s eyes were upon her. ‘If he should die …’
‘I care little what becomes of me if Anton dies. Please let me try, Claire. He will suffer so if you cauterise his wound, and I think my way will work better in this case, for there is no putrefaction to burn away.’
Claire looked at her oddly for a moment, then inclined her head. ‘I know your heart is good, Marietta. Fetch all that you need, and I will send the servants out of the room when you are ready.’
Marietta thanked her and hurried away to the stillroom. She soaked the herbs in water that had been boiled, for it was often contaminated, then strained them into a vessel. The mulch would be packed around the wound after she had sewn Anton’s flesh together, and the infusion drunk a little at a time.
Returning to the chamber where Anton lay, his eyes closed, she found Claire alone.
‘I sent the servants to boil more water and heat the cauterising iron,’ she said. ‘It is best if they do not see what you do, Marietta, for it would be thought strange—and servants talk. I would not have your goodness taken as something different.’
Marietta nodded. Her skill with healing was at times controversial, and had been learned from various sources, but mostly it came from within. Her instincts were strong in this case.
The wound had been bleeding again. She took a clean cloth and wiped the skin dry, then threaded her needle with white silk. She gathered the open wound, pulling it so that the gap closed, and then pushed her needle through the flesh, pulling the thread behind. Claire made a gasping sound but said nothing, holding the candle nearer so that Marietta could see to work. It took several minutes to complete the seam. Satisfied that only a dribble
of blood was seeping through, Marietta packed the mulch of herbs over the wound and laid a patch of clean linen on it. Then she and Claire wound the bandage about him, letting him back gently on the pillows when it was done.
He had cried out a few times as Marietta did her work, but now he merely lay still, his eyes closed, beads of sweat on his brow.
Claire went to the door and took the iron from a servant, sending the girl running to fetch more clean linen. She brought the red-hot poker back and laid it in the grate, then stood looking down at Anton.
‘He does not suffer as he would had we used the iron.’
‘I once spoke to an Arab doctor. He told me that he had seen cases where the iron killed rather than saved life. It was his belief that stitching was the best way if the wound was clean, and he showed me how to infuse the herbs to guard against infection.’
‘Was this when you were at the castle?’
‘Before—at my father’s house. My father believed in herbs and medicines. As a young man he studied to be a physician, but when his father died he had to take over the ordering of the manor. I think he made a better physician than a baron, for he liked nothing better than studying—and he taught me much of what I know.’
‘So it is not witchcraft but the study of medicine?’
‘I am not a witch, Claire. If I were a man the methods I use would cause no raised eyebrows. ‘Tis because I am a woman, and women should not know these things. Apothecaries have always been men, as have doctors. They are jealous of their privileges and will not share them. My father was frowned on because he accepted new ideas and was friendly with men of Arabia, for they are often not trusted—perhaps because they push the limits of known medicine and dismiss old methods as crude and useless.’
Claire’s gaze rested on Anton. ‘Will he take a fever?’
‘It is possible, indeed likely. He must be made to drink the infusion, though it is bitter and he will fight us—at least until he comes through the worst.’
‘Supposing the wound turns putrid?’
‘If it does we shall pack it with maggots so that they eat the infection.’
‘No!’ Claire looked at her in horror. ‘That is horrible. How could you think of it?’
‘I saw my father use the method on a lad whose arm was badly infected, and his wound healed when everyone thought he would die.’ Marietta met her questioning look. ‘I shall do whatever is necessary. Anton saved my life more than once—do you think that I would let him die from neglect?’
‘I know you love him.’ Claire said. ‘I will help you to nurse him. But please do not ask me to touch maggots!’ She pulled a face of disgust and shuddered. ‘I cannot abide the creatures.’
‘Have you never fished with them?’ Marietta smiled. ‘That is another thing my father taught me—to fish with a pole, thin string and a bent pin.’
‘It is no wonder you are different from other women. Your father was unwise to teach you so much, Marietta. Did your mother not object?’
‘She died too soon. My father had no son. I became his friend, son, and chatelaine of his home. We were happy until he lost all his money—and then I had to marry to save him from the debtors’ prison. I did not wish to marry a man so much older than myself, but I obeyed my father so that he might live out his days in comfort.’
Claire nodded. ‘I shall leave you to sit with Anton for a while. If you need me, call me. I shall take your place while you sleep.’
‘I shall not leave him until I know he will live. I may sleep at the foot of his bed until then.’
‘It is hardly proper.’ Claire began, and then shook her head. ‘You know best. Call me if you need me …’
Marietta waited until the door had closed behind her, then brought a chair close to the bed and sat in it, so that she could watch over her patient. There was no point in Claire taking her place, for if she went to bed she would not sleep a wink.
Anton’s fever started in the early hours of the morning. Marietta had been half dozing in the chair when the cry woke her.
‘Isabella! Forgive me. I beg you to forgive me. Come back to me. Please come back to me …’
Marietta fetched a cool cloth and went to stand over him. She washed his face and his shoulders, then his arms. His hair was damp with sweat. Smoothing it back from his forehead, she bent to kiss him.
‘It is all right, my love. I am here. Isabella is with you. She forgives you. I forgive you.’ She stroked his head with her hand. ‘My death was not your fault. You must forgive me for hurting you. I did not mean to hurt you. Isabella did not mean to hurt you. Do not grieve for her.’
Anton’s eyelids fluttered. For a brief moment his eyes opened and he seemed to look at her, then he closed them again, sighing and settling.
Marietta felt the ache about her heart intensify. He had loved his first wife so much. She could not expect that he would ever feel as much for her. He would wed her, and she would make what she could of her life, but she must not expect too much.
Anton’s fever lasted two days, but he was a strong man, and though he gagged on the bitter medicine Marietta spooned into his mouth he swallowed it. On the third morning, he opened his eyes and looked at her.
‘Have you been here long?’
‘Since they brought you home.’
‘You should sleep. I shall do well enough now.’
‘Your wound is healing fast and should not take harm. The fever lasted but two days. I believe all will be well with you, sir.’
Anton sighed, his eyes closing. ‘Thank you …’
Seeing that he had slipped into a peaceful slumber, Marietta sent for Claire and told her that their patient was through the worst.
‘His wound appears healthy. It seems he has been fortunate.’
‘More fortunate than anyone guesses, I dare say.’ Claire smiled at her. ‘He owes his life to you, Marietta.’
‘It was the will of God,’ Marietta said. ‘Please do not give me the credit. I but nursed him as any woman would.’
‘You should rest now. Lady Melissa Melford will be here this evening, and Lady Gifford, Countess of Malchester, may be here even sooner. I shall tell them that you nursed Anton, but nothing more.’
Marietta smiled, and left her to watch over Anton for a while. Now that she was sure he would not die of a fever she was prepared to leave him in Claire’s capable hands. His wound might yet become infected, but she would watch, and pray that he took no harm.
When Marietta returned to Anton’s bedchamber she saw that another woman had taken Claire’s place. She was of a similar age to Claire, and beautiful, but when she looked at Marietta there was a flicker of hostility in her eyes.
‘Who are you to enter my son’s bedchamber without so much as a by your leave?’
‘Forgive me. I have been nursing Sir Anton. I did not know you were here, my lady.’
‘You are the Comtesse Montcrief?’ Catherine Gifford’s eyes held the glitter of anger. ‘He was wounded in a battle to protect you, I think?’
‘Yes, I fear that is so. I am sorry for it, but nothing would sway him. He would go to search for Rouen. He said that we should never be at peace until my enemy was dead.’
‘Indeed?’ Catherine’s brows rose. ‘What are you to my son, madame? I know only what Lady Claire has told me.’
‘I am someone who hath reason to be grateful to Anton of Gifford. He has saved my life more than once. I believe that I have in part repaid my debt. Anything more must come from your son, madame.’
‘Is there more? You are a widow, and stood accused of your husband’s murder—is that not so?’
‘Yes, it was so. I was unjustly accused, for I did nothing to harm my husband and nursed him through illness many times—but someone hated me and craved what rightly belongs to my son.’
‘I thank you for your care of Anton. However, I am here now, and I shall nurse him myself.’
‘That is your privilege, my lady,’ Marietta said, and smiled. ‘I hope you will continue t
o use the herbs and infusions I have prepared, for they have seen him through the fever but he still needs them.’
‘My mother will be here soon. She is skilled in the use of herbs. I shall ask her advice on this matter.’
Marietta inclined her head. Lady Catherine was hostile to her. She might try to influence her son to turn away from the marriage he had proposed. Marietta would not hold him to his promise if he told her that he had changed his mind.
Would the stigma of murder and witchcraft hang over her all her life?
Marietta was close to tears as she went to her bedchamber. She would begin to make clothes for her son with the cloth she had purchased in London.
Perhaps it was just as well that Anton had told no one that they planned to marry.
Marietta had been at her stitching for three hours when someone knocked at the door. She called out that they might enter, looking up in surprise as a woman she had never seen before came in.
This woman was older, but had a gentle beauty, her once flame-red hair lightly streaked with white, though her face had few lines.
‘Madame la Comtesse Montcrief?’
Marietta got to her feet and curtsied, for she knew at once who the lady must be. ‘Lady Melford, forgive me. I thought when you knocked it must be a servant come to call me. Had you summoned me, I would have come to you.’
‘I have come to thank you for your excellent care of my grandson, madame—or may I perhaps call you by your name?’
‘I am Marietta, my lady. I did only what was necessary, just simple nursing.’
‘You do not need to pretend with me,’ Melissa, Lady Melford, said, and smiled. ‘I saw your work. It was excellent, my dear, and I believe his wound will heal well now. The herbs you used are much the same as I would have chosen—as I told my daughter. Catherine was distressed. If she was a little harsh to you, please forgive her.’
A Wayward Woman Page 42
