Fugitive Countess

by Anne Herries

  Marietta fought down the wave of longing and regret. If only she hadn’t been obliged to marry the Comte. She had accepted her fate, and been a good wife to him, but now she was alone, with only a few jewels to help her make her way in the world. Having always been loved and indulged, she was not sure how she could make a living—unless perhaps she could take on some sewing? Her embroidery had often been praised, but would it be good enough to earn enough food to keep her child and her servants alive?

  Her thoughts were heavy, sometimes dark and fearful as they rode through countryside that seemed very different from that she had known all her life. England was beautiful in its own way, but it was not France—it was not her home. Her knowledge of the language was not as strong as it ought to be if she were to live here, and not everyone would speak French as well as Anton of Gifford. Her servants would find it even more difficult to adapt, for they knew hardly a word of English.

  ‘You have looked pensive all morning, lady,’ Anton said when they stopped for refreshment. She was sitting on a fallen tree, her child in her arms, a picture so enchanting that his heart caught. ‘Does something trouble you? The boy is not ill?’

  ‘No, Charles seems to thrive. I believe he is enjoying the adventure.’

  Anton knelt down, looking at the boy’s face. His eyes were wide and enquiring, and, as he saw that he was the centre of attention, he chortled with glee and leaned forward to touch Anton’s hand. Caught by this unexpected gesture, Anton reached out and lifted him, then swung him high above his head, holding him safely so that Charles shouted and laughed, clearly enjoying the encounter.

  ‘You are good with children,’ Marietta said, and smiled as Anton returned the child to her arms. ‘His father played with him that way sometimes.’

  ‘He will miss his father, I think.’

  ‘Yes. We shall both miss the Comte…’

  ‘Is that why you are sad? Because your husband is dead?’

  ‘I grieved for his death because it was cruel and wrong, but I am not sad because of it…’

  ‘Then why?’ Anton’s eyes quizzed her.

  ‘It is just that everything is new and strange here,’ Marietta said. ‘I dare say the countryside will seem more familiar as time passes.’ She did not say that she feared for what her future must be without a husband to care for her and her son.

  ‘Yes, it must seem different,’ Anton agreed, and looked thoughtful. ‘But we shall soon be with Lady Claire, and then you may feel more comfortable. You will be able to care properly for your son there.’

  ‘He is very precious to me.’

  Anton nodded. ‘I can see that, madame. I have a daughter, perhaps a few months older. I think much of providing a good home for her future, for she is all I have left now.’

  ‘Your wife died?’

  ‘Yes. It seems that we have something in common—a shared loss. You must cleave to your son and find happiness in him, lady.’

  ‘Yes, I shall.’ A delicate blush touched her cheeks. He had been married and widowed! How foolish all her dreams had been! He had never thought of her after that day on the Field of the Cloth of Gold. ‘If I can stay with Lady Claire for a few weeks I may find some way to earn my living.’

  ‘I am sure the Countess has room for one more lady in her household.’

  ‘I am good with my needle.’

  ‘Then I am sure she will be happy to have you as one of her ladies.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps…’

  Marietta was thoughtful as they remounted and started on their way once more. Seeing Anton with her son had shown her another side to him. He had a daughter he loved and he had once had a wife. Perhaps the reason he sometimes looked so stern was that he was grieving hard for his wife.

  She tried not to think of what might have been. Her future was in the balance, for she could not know how she would be received when they reached the home of her kinswoman.

  Marietta was sitting in the inn parlour nursing her son when Anton entered. Charles had been crying and his face was flushed. She thought that he might have a tooth coming through, and she ran her finger over his gums, rubbing on a little of the mixture she used when he suffered this way.

  ‘What ails the boy?’ Anton asked, frowning.

  ‘I believe he has a tooth coming,’ Marietta replied without looking up. ‘He cried when I gave him his milk this morning, and he is not usually fretful.’

  Anton picked up the little pot she had been using and held it so that he could smell the substance inside. ‘This smells like honey?’

  ‘It is a mixture of many things, but I sweeten it with honey so that he does not refuse it.’

  Anton nodded, his eyes going to her face as she nursed the boy.

  ‘You look tired. Where is Rosalind?’

  ‘She is rinsing some cloths for the boy. I cannot expect her to care for him all the time. He kept us both awake last night.’

  ‘Give him to me,’ Anton said, and took the child into his arms. As if by magic Charles’s cries stopped, and he lay looking up at Anton, eyes wide with wonder.

  ‘He feels safe with you,’ Marietta said, and smiled.

  She could see that he was accustomed to handling a child and wondered at it, for it was unusual in a knight of his standing.

  ‘My husband loved the boy but he seldom had time for him. Though when he did make the time Charles loved it.’

  ‘A father should always have time for his son.’ Anton handed the boy back to her. ‘We could rest here for today if you wish? If the travelling is too much for you or the child it would add but one day to our journey.’

  ‘I thank you, but I am sure you have more important business, sir. Charles will come to no harm if we continue our journey.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps it is best, for once we are at your kinswoman’s house you will be able to rest and see your child properly cared for.’

  ‘Thank you…’ Marietta felt a pang of regret. It might have been nice to take the journey more slowly, because it would have given her time to get to know Anton of Gifford—yet perhaps it was for the best after all. ‘You have been kind, sir.’

  ‘I did what any honourable knight would do when finding a lady in distress,’ he said, and then turned on his heel and walked away.

  He was a man of many moods! Marietta held the sigh inside. It would only bring her heartache if she began to like Anton of Gifford too much…

  ‘Marietta, dearest!’

  Claire embraced her, the delight in her face evidence that she was thrilled that her kinswoman had come at last. ‘I am so happy that you have come to visit me. When I wrote I thought you might be too busy to leave your home, for I dare say there are many duties to keep you there?’

  ‘Once I had many duties, but no longer…’ Marietta saw the questions in her cousin’s eyes. Her heart ached, for she could not tell if she would be welcome once she had confessed the truth. ‘I would tell you privately.’

  ‘Of course. I have many questions, but they can wait. You have travelled a long way and must be tired. When Anton’s messenger told us you were coming I prepared a chamber for you. I shall take you up, my love, and you may rest and take a little food and wine before you join us.’

  ‘You are very kind, Countess.’

  ‘No, my dear. You must call me Claire. I insist on it.’

  Marietta smiled, allowing the Countess to lead the way up the wide staircase to the gallery above. A servant sprang to open a door and they went into a room of fair proportions. At once Marietta saw that this was to serve her as a bedchamber, but also as somewhere she could sit alone with her embroidery if she wished to be quiet. She knew instantly that it was one of the best chambers and her guilt was heavy.

  ‘I shall leave you to rest, my love. We shall talk later.’

  ‘It is best that I tell you now,’ Marietta said. ‘I would not wish to deceive you.’

  ‘You look so serious. Tell me, then, since it concerns you.’

  ‘Sir Anton saved my life. I was being pursu
ed by men who meant to force me to stand trial as a witch. I should have been condemned on the word of a man who has stolen my husband’s estate from my son—and I believe may have murdered the Comte. He accuses me of killing my husband by witchcraft or poison, but I swear to you that I am innocent. I did not kill my husband and I am not a witch.’

  ‘Of course you are not! I know well that you nursed your husband through his illness last winter. What a wicked man, to steal what belongs to you and your son. If he killed his father he is evil beyond words.’

  ‘I believe that my husband died of poison. I sent medicine for his chest that night, but he had taken it many times before. I can only believe that something was added to the mixture—something that caused his death.’

  ‘Oh, the wickedness of it! And then to accuse you of the crime to cover his own! He should be punished for what he has done, Marietta.’

  ‘I wish I thought it could be done. I was forced to leave under cover of darkness, which must make me appear guilty in the eyes of many. I swear I have never used what skill I have for anything but good—but there are many who condemn me.’

  ‘It was unfortunate that you were forced to flee, but had you not left you might be dead—and your son.’

  ‘I have no doubt that Rouen would kill Charles if he had the chance. I did not know what to do for the best. All I could think of was to escape and bring my son here…’ Marietta faltered. ‘I do not know if you wish me to remain now that you know…’

  ‘Of course you must stay, for as long as it suits you,’ Claire said. ‘My husband would say the same if he were here. He has been called to court, as he frequently is. His Majesty often has some small service that Harry must perform for him, but we have been well rewarded for it so I do not complain.’

  ‘I am good with my needle. If I may serve you as a seamstress…’

  ‘Nonsense! You are my dear cousin, and shall be treated as my equal—as you are. We must see what can be done to restore your son’s birthright.’

  ‘Would your husband speak to King Henry for me?’

  ‘The best person would be Anton, for he is much in favour at court.’ Claire saw her expression. ‘Have you not told him—asked for his help?’

  ‘He knows the truth, but I did not think to ask him to intercede with the King for I did not know it was possible for him to do so.’

  ‘I do not know Anton well,’ Claire said, ‘for he has been away some years, but as a boy he seemed honourable and kind. He may still be in the hall downstairs. Why do you not go down and speak to him before he leaves?’

  Marietta had moved to the narrow window to glance out at the view. She watched the party of horsemen riding away, Anton at their head. He did not turn back to look for her.

  ‘It is already too late,’ she said, feeling a wave of loss and regret. He had gone without saying goodbye to her. She had been foolish to imagine that he might care what became of her. ‘He has been kind to me. I suppose he might have helped me had I asked him.’

  ‘Well, all is not lost,’ Claire told her. ‘I shall send a letter to my husband asking him to visit us, though it may be some weeks before he is able to come home. I know it is distressing for you, but you are safe with me, my dearest. You and your son will have a home with me, and all that is possible will be done to restore at least a part of what you have lost.’

  ‘For myself, I do not mind. I never wished to be a comtesse, or the wife of a rich man, but my son has been cheated of his rights and that hurts me for his sake.’

  ‘I should feel the same,’ Claire said, and kissed her cheek. ‘My daughter Annabel has been betrothed to a young man some months, and we are to see her married within the year. Once Harry is home the arrangements will be made. I shall leave you to rest for a while, my love. Come down when you are ready and meet her…’

  Marietta thanked her. She sat down on the edge of the large bed, which sank beneath her. It had a goose feather mattress, and would be more comfortable than the beds she had slept in as they journeyed here, for the guesthouses at the various monasteries and inns were not given to such luxury.

  She felt like weeping. Whether because Claire had been so kind, or whether because she had the odd feeling of having lost something, she did not know. It was unlikely that she would see Anton of Gifford for a long time, if ever. Why should he bother about a woman he hardly knew?

  Perhaps she ought to have enlisted his help with the English King—but it was too late now.

  Anton had watched as his uncle’s wife greeted her visitor with pleasure. It was obvious that she was welcome here, which meant that he could leave with an easy heart. Had the Comtesse de Montcrief been turned away, he would have felt it incumbent upon him to extend his protection. Now he could simply ride away and forget her.

  Anton had done his duty. He must think now of the future. The King might ask further favours of him, but for the moment his daughter was safe with Anton’s mother. When he had time to return for her, he would look for that sensible woman who would be a good mother for his child and ask nothing more than his name and wealth. It would be wrong to think of finding love again.

  He hoped that the King would release him so that he could return to the child he loved and begin to make a new life for them both. He would think no more of the beautiful woman he had left with Claire Melford.

  Yet the memory of her scent, and her laughter when he had watched her playing with her son, remained in his mind, like a haunting melody that he could not forget. Was he a fool to cut her from his life? He needed a wife—why should that wife not be Marietta?

  No! He crushed the thought ruthlessly. He had learned that beautiful women were faithless. He would be a fool to give his heart to a woman like the Comtesse de Montcrief.

  ‘You say Montcrief was murdered?’ King Henry frowned. He took the letter, broke the seal, glanced at it and tossed it into the fire, watching as the parchment curled, turned brown and then crumbled into ash. ‘You did well to bring this back to me, Gifford. This man who has taken command at the castle—what is his name again?’

  ‘They call him the Bastard of Rouen, Sire. He has men to follow him, and I believe he is popular with the rabble.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  Anton explained about the tourney and the way the crowd had reacted, cheering the Bastard until the last, when they transferred their support to him.

  ‘Did he not recognise you as the winner of the contest?’

  ‘Not immediately,’ Anton said. ‘I was not wearing armour that day—but he may have on reflection, for we were later attacked by rogues I suspect to be his men. I believe he must hate me, for he felt humiliated that day.’

  Henry nodded, his gaze narrowed. ‘The widow—what do you know of her?’

  ‘Very little, Sire.’ It was not quite the truth, but Anton was wary of telling the King too much at this stage. He still felt protective towards Marietta, though he had determined to put her out of his mind.

  Henry looked thoughtful. ‘If she has been unlawfully dispossessed of her husband’s estate something should be done. My brother of France might take a dim view, but I think some show of power should be made. When a bastard can take what rightfully belongs to Montcrief’s son the law is slighted. As for the widow, it depends whether she be guilty of murder or innocent.’

  ‘Your Majesty speaks truly.’

  ‘My father curbed the power of the barons here. It would do my brother of France no harm to copy his example.’ Henry glanced out of the window and smiled. ‘I must go down and walk with Mistress Boleyn. I shall think on this, Anton. When I have decided I shall speak to you again.’

  ‘Yes, Sire.’

  ‘We must set up a contest. I love to wrestle, and you sound a worthy competitor. I would like to see your silver arrow…’

  ‘I do not have it with me, Sire. Perhaps another time?’

  King Hal nodded, a gleam of anticipation in his eyes. ‘Come—we must not keep the ladies waiting…’

  Ant
on could only acquiesce. He was impatient to return to his mother and enquire after Madeline, but for the moment he had no choice but to obey the King.

  Marietta walked in the gardens near the house. She had been a guest here for three weeks now, and was becoming familiar with her surroundings. At first she had felt uncomfortable, but Claire and her daughter Annabel had been so kind that she had almost lost her fear of intruding in their family circle. It was not and never could be like her own home, but she would do her best to repay the kindness she was receiving and hope that one day she might have her own house again.

  A sigh left her lips, because she could not see how that would ever happen. With a cloud of suspicion and disgrace hanging over her, it was unlikely that she would have many suitors. As the widow of Comte de Montcrief with her reputation intact she would have had barons queuing up to offer for her, but as a woman alone with little fortune she had small chance of finding happiness.

  Perhaps she ought to have asked Anton for help. Had she done so, he might have interceded for her with the English King.

  Marietta glanced round as she heard a twig snap somewhere in the shrubbery. She had been sitting on a wooden bench lost in thought for nearly an hour. Claire would be wondering where she was.

  Getting to her feet, she saw one of the bushes move slightly and a chill ran down her spine. Was someone there? Was that person watching her?

  ‘Is someone there? What do you want?’

  Silence. Marietta debated whether to investigate, but then she heard a voice call to her and saw Claire at the window, beckoning her to come inside.

  Marietta walked towards the house. She told herself that she had been jumping at shadows. Why should anyone be watching her? She knew hardly anyone in England. It was foolish to worry. The Bastard of Rouen had all that he needed. Why should he come looking for her here?

  She was safe in her kinswoman’s house. And if sometimes she wished for more to occupy her time, she must accept that she was a guest here. In time she would find a way of repaying her hostess’s generosity. Thinking on it would surely distract her, too, from her thoughts and feelings for Anton of Gifford.