‘There had always been rumours about my grandmother’s powers. Her healing medicines had never been known to fail and some whispered she was a witch.’ Marietta smiled bleakly. ‘If she was, then she was a white witch, for she never did anything but good. Madame de Montespan began to come to her for beautifying lotions and creams as well as lace. By then she had won the King’s heart, but Kings’ hearts are fickle things, as Madame de Montespan well had cause to know.
‘When she was heavy with the King’s child she came to my grandmother for a love potion, something to slip in the King’s wine and enflame him with desire for her and her alone. My grandmother told her that men’s hearts could not be won like that and Madame de Montespan flew into a rage. At last my grandmother gave her what she asked for. It held nothing harmful—it was an aphrodisiac that was known in the days of ancient Egypt.’
She turned, her eyes holding Léon’s, a faint smile in them. ‘She never gave me the recipe for it, so have no fear that your own heart has been won away by stealth.’
‘My own heart was lost before I ever drank or ate with you,’ Léon said, and at the mere sound of his voice her heart turned over with longing for him.
‘The aphrodisiac was for men who had lost their ability to love and that did not apply to the King. It had no power to hold a man’s love to any one woman. Indeed, it only served to make him lustier than ever, and with one of Madame de Montespan’s own maids. Madame de Montespan’s fury knew no bounds. She came to my grandmother demanding that she give her a potion that she might hold the King’s love for herself alone, and become Queen of France.’
There was an audible gasp from the Duke, who was watching Marietta fixedly, his face growing grimmer by the minute.
‘My grandmother said there was no such potion, and then Madame de Montespan said that what the witch on the rue Beauregarde could do, surely my grandmother could do?’
‘And what was that?’ the Duke asked.
‘To call on the powers of darkness. La Voisin is the most evil woman in France. In that house on the rue Beauregarde black masses are said over the naked bodies of some of the highest born ladies in France. The blood of new-born babes shed so that these women may attain their hearts’ desires, and Athénaïs de Montespan desired the King.’
‘Mother of God, do you know what you are saying?’ the Duke asked, his face ashen with horror.
‘Yes.’ Marietta’s voice was calm and composed. ‘I’ve had plenty of time to think about it, and to wonder why my grandmother should have been hunted down and burnt so mercilessly. I thought it was because she had refused to part with her secrets of protection from poison, but I was wrong. The man who came asking for that secret was from La Montespan.’
‘Protection from poison?’ Henri’s voice changed from horror to incredulity.
‘Arsenic taken daily in minute doses will build up protection, and a large dose given by a poisoner will not have the desired effect.’
‘I see,’ Henri mopped his brow. ‘One would have to have a lot of faith to venture on such a method of protection.’
‘One has always to have faith,’ Marietta replied, ‘and Athénaïs de Montespan’s faith is in La Voisin. My grandmother told me that the potions La Voisin was giving her were dangerous. That in trying to keep the King’s love by such methods she was putting his life in danger.’
‘He must be told! Immediately!’ The Duke was on his feet, his face as white as his cascading lace jabot.
‘And be executed for treason in the Plâce de la Grève?’ Marietta asked quietly.
‘It is La Voisin and Madame de Montespan who will suffer that death!’
‘No. Madame de Montespan is the King’s mistress. She has given him one child and is carrying another. The King will not listen to you if you try and tell him of her visits to La Voisin. What proof have we? Only my grandmother could have testified of her requests for love philtres, and her determination to go elsewhere when refused them. Only my grandmother knew what La Voisin told her. And myself. And that is why I am being branded a witch and hunted.’
‘You!’ Henri’s senses reeled.
‘Yes, that is how Léon found me, fleeing the witch-hunters who burnt my grandmother. That is why they are now in Montpellier searching for me. They are sent from La Montespan, for she must have me silenced. There is no way I could tell the King of her association with La Voisin and be believed, but Athénaïs de Montespan is not a lady to take chances. She will have me killed and then her dark secrets will be safe.’
‘Is this true?’ Henri turned to Léon.
Léon nodded, his well-shaped lips in a hard line, black brows furrowed.
‘Yes, and Marietta is right. The King would never believe us, not without more evidence than we now have.’
‘Then he’ll get it!’ Henri said, his aquiline nose pinched white with fury. ‘If it takes me years, he’ll get it!’
‘Amen to that, but for the moment we have the witch-hunters in Montpellier to contend with.’
‘Not hunters. Hunter,’ Henri corrected. ‘There is only one.’
Marietta remembered the black-robed figure with the fanatical eyes and shivered. One was quite enough.
‘The safest place for Marietta at the moment is Lancerre,’ Léon said decisively. ‘Then we will ride together for Montpellier, Henri.’
‘Elise!’ Marietta raised a hand to her mouth. ‘It is nearly noon! She will be needing medicine quickly if she is to continue her recovery.’
‘Then get it and let’s ride with all speed. The sooner this day’s business is dealt with, the better.’
As Marietta ran out of the room towards the kitchen and her basket, hastily scooping a fresh bottle of medicine from the pantry shelf, Léon and Henri buckled their swords. ‘ Where’s Raphael?’ Léon asked, a dagger going down the top of one of his leather boots.
‘Courting Céleste, but the Devil knows where.’
‘Find him and tell him we have more urgent matters to attend to than lovemaking,’ Léon said grimly. ‘I’ll join you the minute I return from Lancerre. By tonight Marietta should be safe.’
He strode from the room, catching Marietta up in the courtyard. For a fleeting second he held her hands tight, his eyes burning into hers. ‘Today there’ll be no time for words of love, Marietta, but there is no need of them. You have my heart. That will suffice.’
And then he swung easily into Saracen’s saddle and Marietta galloped after him on her mare, her basket over her arm, her mind in tumult. Killing the witch-hunter would not save her; La Montespan would send another, and men to murder Léon and any who helped him. Because of her both men would be riding to their deaths, and there was nothing that she could do to prevent it.
The Abbé was waiting for them, and there was no chance for last words. No opportunity for even another brief touch of the hands. He kissed her with his eyes, leaving her weak with fear and desire.
The Abbé hurried forward protestingly as Léon wheeled Saracen around, showing no sign of dismounting.
‘One moment, my son. I must speak to you.’
‘Not now, Monseigneur.’
‘Now.’ The little priest’s eyes were like pinpricks, and with difficulty Léon suppressed his impatience.
‘I can only give you five minutes of my time. I have urgent business to attend to.’
‘As I have, my son,’ the Abbé said gravely, leading Léon into the house.
Marietta was already at the top of the stairs, hurrying to Elise’s bedchamber. She felt a wave of relief at opening the door and seeing Elise’s maid carefully brushing her hair. If Elise had thoughts for her appearance she was truly regaining her health. Her delay had not caused a relapse.
‘How good and kind you are,’ Elise said, dismissing her maid and taking hold of Marietta’s hand. ‘My housekeeper has told me how you nursed me day and night unceasingly. I owe you my life.’
‘Nonsense,’ Marietta said with a smile. ‘You owe me nothing but to recover your strength in the fastes
t time possible.’
‘I fear it will be a long time,’ Elise returned, leaning against her pillow, her skin almost waxen. ‘ I have scarce strength to raise my hand.’
‘Then you must eat.’ Elise shuddered and Marietta added, ‘Milk and honey for two days, and then some eggs lightly boiled and perhaps the breast of a chicken. You must force yourself, Elise, or you will never leave your bed.’
Elise had no desire to do so. Léon could not expect so much of her if she was confined to bed. There could be no question of tiring walks or, even worse, hawking and hunting. Bed was a welcome refuge, and one Elise intended staying in for as long as possible.
‘Léon only left last night after the fever broke,’ Marietta said. ‘He will be here to see you shortly.’
The prospect made Elise’s lower lip tremble. She wasn’t strong enough to cope with Léon’s demanding presence. Marietta, misunderstanding and thinking that Elise was suppressing tears of disappointment, turned away quickly, her heart tightening. Elise was so helpless! Little more than a child. How would she bear the blow they were about to deliver to her? She poured medicine and Elise took it dutifully, shuddering with distaste.
Marietta looked for a drinking glass and failed to find one.
‘My maid took glass and pitcher to refill and has not returned with them,’ Elise said piteously, screwing her eyes against the unpleasnt taste in her mouth.
‘Then I will get them,’ Marietta said, ‘and bring some blackcurrant juice for you next time I come.’
The house was quiet as she descended the stairs, the housekeeper for once forgetting her position and joining the other servants to discuss their mistress’ miraculous recovery of health. From behind the closed door the Abbé’s voice came clearly.
‘What you are telling me is monstrous.’
‘Not monstrous.’ Léon’s voice was tired but firm. ‘ It would be monstrous for me to marry Madame Sainte-Beuve whilst I love another.’
‘Whilst you think you love another,’ the little priest corrected angrily. ‘You have known and loved Madame Sainte-Beuve for six years, my son. For six years she has lived on the promise you made to her, that one day you would return. Why, the story is told far and wide! Your love for each other is becoming a legend as the stories told by the troubadours of Toulouse. And you would shame her, humiliate her, break her heart? A lady who has nothing to hurt you or arouse such treatment? A lady so gentle and kind that even her servants call her saint? To disown such an obligation to slake a brief lust would bring you nothing but unhappiness and disfavour in the eyes of our most gracious Lord. Madame Sainte-Beuve has never enjoyed good health. Now she is weak beyond all belief and will continue to be so. She needs your care, your protection. The love that you solemnly promised her.’
Marietta could bear no more. Instead of entering the kitchen for the glass and water she walked slowly outside into the sunlight. The little Abbé was right. She and Léon could never find happiness knowing that Elise was only miles away, ill and alone and broken-hearted.
There had been a moment, when she had so rapturously accepted Léon’s declaration of love, that she had believed Elise would find consolation with the adoring Duke. Elise’s fevered cries had robbed her of that hope. Her happiness lay with Léon. She had waited for him six long years and Léon had tenderness for her. Without her presence perhaps it would develop into love. There was still time for her to return to Chatonnay before Léon, and to tell the Duke of her decision to leave. Then not only would Elise’s happiness be secured, but neither man would risk death by riding to Montpellier to kill the witch-hunter.
Quietly she led her mare away from the house, not urging her to a gallop until they were too distant to be heard by either Léon or the Abbé. She had made the right decision, and the knowledge gave her nothing but pain. Not to see Léon again. Nor to hear his voice, feel his touch, seemed a thing too terrible to be true. Yet it had to be so. There was no other way.
The Duke, already mounted and awaiting Léon’s arrival, stared at her in astonishment. ‘Where is Léon?’ and then, with sudden dread, ‘Elise? Has anything happened to Elise?’
‘Elise is well, though weak,’ Marietta answered, slipping from her mare. ‘I want you to do something for me, Henri. I want you to tell Léon goodbye for me.’
‘Goodbye?’ He stared at her incredulously.
‘Yes. My reasons are my own and are sound. I have just one more task to complete before I leave, and I must hurry if I am to accomplish it before Léon returns.’
There was a determination about her that brooked no argument.
He stared after her speechlessly as she disappeared into the château. What the deuce had happened at Lancerre? And where the devil was Léon?
Marietta slipped quietly upstairs to her room. The bodice of the gown was complete. Tenderly, and with unshed tears glistening on her lashes she picked it up and the yards of heavy silk satin laid by for just such an occasion. Elise’s maid would soon be able to fashion a skirt and attach the exquisite lace to make the wedding dress Elise so desired.
Henri blinked uncomprehendingly as she emerged carrying nothing but her lace and some yards of silk. No food, no wine, no provisions of any kind. She mounted her mare and turned to give him a final goodbye.
‘Tell the King, if Léon refuses to return to Versailles, that he is of more service to him here, where there is so much unrest. A loyal man, able to summon a regiment at will, is of far more worth to him in Languedoc than in Versailles. The King is a man of sense. He will see the truth of the reasoning. And Henri …’ Her voice was unsteady. ‘ Tell Léon I left him not because I did not love him, but because I loved him too well.’ And then she turned her back on him, on the château, on everything that was life and breath to her and rode away, across the drawbridge and down the avenue of plane trees.
She crossed the Lancerre road, climbing up the hillside, reining in Clothilde beneath a gnarled fig tree. Then, steadfastly, she watched the shimmering road below her. She had not long to wait. In a cloud of dust Léon rode Saracen recklessly towards Chatonnay.
‘Goodbye, sweet love,’ she whispered, and then she dug her spurs in and rode cross-country for Lancerre. A strange horse, richly saddled, stood solitarily in the courtyard, but there was no sign of the Abbé as she breathlessly dismounted.
Carrying her precious gift she ran up the stairs and entered Elise’s room. She lay asleep, her hair framing her face in a golden halo. Very carefully Marietta laid her offering at the foot of the bed. She had given all that she could and Léon would understand. Every time he saw the gown worn by his daughters and granddaughters he would remember her and the few brief hours of happiness that they had shared. Softly she tiptoed from the room and walked to the head of the stairs.
Maurice’s little interlude with Céleste had told him all he wanted to know. The wench that he sought was the guest of the Lion of Languedoc, and he knew enough of that gentleman’s reputation to know he could in no way publicly lay hands on her and proclaim her a witch. To do so would be to cause his own death. He would have to take her far away from the south, far away from the reach of Louis’ hot-blooded warrior.
But where? Léon was master for miles around. Word of a burning in Toulouse, Narbonne, even Nîmes would soon reach his ears. It would have to be somewhere further than that. He would have to take the Riccardi wench where the Lion would never dream of looking.
The answer was so simple that he laughed softly to himself as he rode to Lancerre. Evray. He would take her back to Evray. There would be no disputing she was a witch there; the whole population already believed so. He had asked if he could meet Mademoiselle Riccardi and Céleste had guilelessly told him that he could not today—she would be at Lancerre, tending his sick relative. It seemed that most of her days were spent there. Maurice was in no hurry to see his cousin by marriage, but he was in a hurry to see the girl who nursed her.
Only the luck of the gods had prevented him from riding headlong into Léon. He had seen
the swirl of dust in the distance, and prompted by a sixth sense hastily urged his horse off the road and to the cover of some fig trees. It had been the Lion all right. They had never met, but no one else would ride a horse with such skill and speed, or look so frighteningly menacing.
Maurice waited until he had disappeared before venturing from his hiding-place. The man was a fighter. It showed in every line of his taut, muscled body. He was certainly an adversary he had no intention of meeting.
Madame Sainte-Beuve was asleep when he arrived and to his disappointment the housekeeper told him that Mademoiselle Riccardi had left half an hour previously. The housekeeper had been disapproving. Mademoiselle Riccardi was needed at Lancerre as nurse, and yet had scarce spent five minutes there today.
Maurice had flicked his whip infuriatedly against his boot, knowing that his chance had been lost. He needed to take Marietta with no suspicious eyes watching. To have come across her alone at Lancerre would have been ideal. They could have been halfway to Evray before her presence was missed. He strode the ornately-decked room that so irritated Léon, wondering when next his chance would come, and his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Marietta’s hurried arrival.
With a satisfied smile he heard her run up the stairs towards his cousin’s room. Slowly he walked to the foot of the stairs, preparing to mount, but he had no need to do so. She was already on her way out of the room, closing the door behind her, her cheeks flushed, her eyes unnaturally bright.
He waited for her, one foot on the bottom stair, one hand on the heavily carved banister. An elegant figure in fashionable dress.
‘Oh!’ Marietta gave a startled cry and then quickly recovered herself. It must be Elise’s wedding guest from Montpellier. Seeing his intention of mounting the stairs, she said. ‘I am afraid Madame Sainte-Beuve is asleep at the moment.’
He smiled. It was a strange smile and there was a curious light in his eyes. His face was abnormally pale, and as she drew nearer she saw that it was powdered. He made no effort to move out of her way.
Lion of Languedoc Page 17
