Song of the Heart (Medieval Runaway Wives Book 1)

by Alexa Aston

  Garrett knew better than to try to dissuade Ashby. The man had an eye for ladies, young and old alike. He fell into step with his friend, their long strides covering the distance in a short time. Perhaps he could scan the crowd for the mystery woman.

  “Hannah promised to save us a place,” Ashby said. “She’ll be just off the stage.”

  As they pushed through the edge of the mass, music could be heard. A sweet, lilting melody that touched Garrett in an indescribable way.

  Then a voice entered into the song. He came to a halt, moved by the low, mellow tones.

  Ashby tugged on his sleeve. “She’s up there,” he whispered.

  Garrett followed as if in a dream. Ashby moved and stood by a pretty brunette and they both motioned him over. He walked toward them and turned to the far side of the stage but he instinctively knew who he would see.

  His Lady Montayne.

  She wore a tunic of rich plum. Her golden hair hung free past her waist. He longed to run his fingers through the unbound, silken tresses. No, he’d sit at her feet, a slave to her song, the most beautiful music he’d ever heard. Indeed, sung by the loveliest creature on earth.

  She sang with her eyes closed and he studied her greedily. Despite her height, her bone structure was delicate. Her wrists were small. Her thin, elegant fingers strummed the lute as if they held magic in them. She wore a wistful smile and she had the most kissable mouth he’d ever laid eyes upon.

  As she sang, Garrett wondered at the sadness that seemed to cloak her. She had to have suffered through great sorrows, else she couldn’t bring such richness to the words. A lump gathered in his throat even as he wanted to wash away her pain.

  The last note sounded and reverberated for a moment and then the crowd showed its enthusiasm for her talent. She smiled graciously and then began to weave new magic with her words. She told of a young king who sought honor and how he’d lost his heart to a beautiful maiden while on his quest.

  Once her song ended, the audience settled back as the play began. His songstress remained perched at the far edge of the stage, her sad eyes watching the mummers. Garrett studied her profile—the high cheekbones, the pert, straight nose, and, again, that generous mouth that he longed to touch with his own.

  At that moment, she raised her head. Their eyes locked. Her lush mouth trembled slightly. He smiled casually. Her chin went up as before, defiant as ever.

  It didn’t matter. The hunter had his prey within his grasp.

  Chapter Eight

  Madeleine froze as she caught sight of Lord Montayne’s smile. He seemed so assured, so confident, as he beamed at her from across the crowd. Could he hear her heart pounding through her tunic, so loud it seemed to echo in her ears?

  She licked her lips nervously but her eyes never left his. Their gazes remained locked together. She was distantly aware of the mummers taking their bows and the audience’s cheers of approval but she continued to focus on Lord Montayne. All else faded from view.

  His dark hair was cut close to his head. Although his skin, too, was dark, his eyes stood out in his handsome face. Even from this distance, Madeleine could see the long lashes that framed them. He stood with legs planted firmly in place, his muscular arms now crossed in front of his wide chest. Sir Ashby tugged at his sleeve but was ignored. Montayne’s eyes never left hers, holding her captive in a silent battle of wills.

  Slowly, the noise from the audience died down and the mass began dispersing toward the stalls. Madeleine knew she couldn’t speak to him. Lord Montayne sent her emotions into chaos. She’d never before experienced this uncertainty and exhilaration. How could she possibly endure anything more? She stood, holding her lute close as she maneuvered into the throng, easing between groups of people as swiftly as she could without drawing attention. She had a plan. She would keep fast to it.

  No handsome devil with dark eyes would alter her course.

  *

  The minute she broke the spell, Garrett began to follow her. His lips longed to call out to her but they held no name he could use.

  Despite his swiftness, he lost her before a minute passed. Another cutpurse raced by, overturning a cage of white doves. The birds scattered amidst the crowd, causing shrieks and cries. A cart overturned in the ensuing excitement. By the time he leaped over it, she was gone. He cursed softly under his breath. How could she slip away again?

  Ashby caught up to him. “So you misplaced the maiden again, Garrett?” His mouth twisted as he tried to prevent a smile and failed.

  Garrett cursed again, this time much louder. “I haven’t misplaced her,” he snapped, causing Ashby to chuckle softly.

  “She couldn’t be that hard to find, my friend. She’s bound to be the tallest woman here. With her height and that gorgeous mane of hair flowing behind her, I’d think every man at the faire would follow her.”

  Garrett stared hard at Ashby, his eyes narrowing into small slits. “We’ll not leave until she’s found, Ash. Mark my words.”

  “Then let’s start with the mummers. Since she’s part of their troupe, she’s bound to turn up there sooner than later.”

  The two men headed back toward the makeshift stage. Hannah stood waiting for Ashby and ran to them as they approached.

  “Where did you go, my lord?” she chastised Ashby with a flirting glance. “I was afraid I’d displeased you. You hurried away so quickly.” Her full lips turned from a pout into a more inviting smile.

  Ashby burst out laughing. “You are a treasure, little Hannah,” he exclaimed. “But come, Lord Montayne and I shall enjoy your company while we find some refreshment. Let us try some of that mulled wine you spoke of.”

  Ashby took Hannah’s arm and began leading her away. He glanced back over his shoulder and motioned Garrett to follow. Meeting his companion’s glare with a lecherous grin, he gave Hannah’s bottom a fond pinch. She swatted his hand away playfully and he slipped an arm around her waist.

  They purchased their wine and some hot sticky buns and made their way across the crowd. Ashby picked out a soft patch of ground and they sat.

  “So, my dear, you were telling me about life with the mummers.” Ashby glanced back to Garrett. “We would love to hear all about your troupe.”

  Garrett thought he’d go mad. The chit was comely, but her voice grated on his nerves worse than rusted armor. Still, Ashby was good with the girl, both in listening and complimenting her at the right times. He had always admired his friend’s easy charm when it came to women. Gradually, Ashby led Hannah around to the information they sought.

  “You were right about the lute player, Hannah. Rarely have I heard so talented a minstrel—and never one that was a woman,” Ashby proclaimed.

  “You could’ve knocked me over with a feather the first time I heard her sing,” said Hannah. “Just like a songbird, she is, and right nice, too.”

  “Even one so beautiful?” interjected Garrett. “I find beautiful women to often be tiresome, so enchanted are they with their own looks.”

  Ashby groaned. “Sweet Hannah, listen not to my friend. He’s had bad luck with beautiful women.” He paused and then added, “And even worse luck with ugly ones.”

  Hannah cackled at his wit while Garrett waved a fist at Ashby. “See, dear Hannah, even now he mocks me, wishing he found you first,” and he gave her a sweet smile. “But tell us more about the lady troubadour,” Ashby continued. “Has she been with your group for long?”

  “Nay, my lord. ’Tis been but two months now. She came back with Gwenith.”

  “Gwenith?”

  “Oh, poor Gwenith didn’t perform today. She’s been much too sick. Madeleine has been caring for her and little Evan, Gwenith’s naughty son.”

  Garrett interrupted. “The woman who sings, her name is Madeleine?”

  “Aye, my lord,” Hannah replied. “She’s as kind as she is pretty and tells the most amusing stories. Half the men in the troupe swear they’re in love with her, even fat, old Edgar.”

  Hannah frowned. “B
ut she cannot even take a needle to thread properly. She’s all thumbs, though she has tried to help me once or twice.”

  “Is she sweet on someone?” Garrett asked softly.

  Hannah’s eyes grew large. “Nay, my lord, she keeps to herself. Oh, she’s close to Gwenith and Evan and treats everyone right nice, she does, but she goes all quiet when someone asks about her past. She’s mighty mysterious about things, if you ask me.” She sighed. “I think Royce is sweet on her.”

  “Royce?” Garrett asked. Even as he spoke the name, he remembered the muscular, blond man who possessively had taken his mystery woman in hand and led her away. No, he didn’t like this Royce at all—but he’d found out what he needed to know.

  Her name was Madeleine.

  *

  Madeleine wove her way through couples who were arm-in-arm, racing children, and happy families enjoying both the calm weather and goods to be had. She didn’t stop until she reached the copse of trees and, even then, she continued until she had gone a distance she deemed safe.

  Breathless, she finally collapsed upon the soft, mossy grass, cool against her overheated skin. She tried to breathe slowly and deeply and regain control of her racing pulse.

  Why had she run? What did she have to fear from him? She’d done nothing wrong. Well, perhaps just a wee bit wrong. She remembered the cloak still in her possession, the rich, plush fabric and how it felt when wrapped around her. She had tried it on twice since that April night, inhaling the subtle masculine scent that lingered on it and feeling oddly safe within its folds. She wondered what it would be like to be in Lord Montayne’s arms.

  What was it about him that caused her to act this way? Oh, he was a handsome devil, with those dark, soulful eyes and brawny build, but could it be more than that? Surely not. His manners and his attitude were boorish. He might be her ideal man in looks but his personality wasn’t attractive in the slightest. Besides, why should she think of him at all? Despite his dashing appearance, she was a married woman. Although Henri had broken every marriage vow made, she was still his faithful, lawful wife. Madeleine loved God far more than any mortal man. She would not be tempted, even if her husband was a cold and cruel man who gave no love to her.

  Lord Montayne’s words continued to echo in her mind, though.

  I dream of you.

  No married man should ever utter such thoughts aloud. She would do well enough to avoid him. Never be in his presence again. For a man who would admit something so raw and unguarded to a woman would seek to act upon those words. Lord Montayne was powerful and wealthy. He was the type of nobleman who would try to bend her to his will, wanting things from her that she couldn’t possibly give.

  Even if she yearned to do so.

  That thought frightened her more than one of Henri’s rages. Immediately, Madeleine uttered a swift Hail Mary for good measure, fearing her own wicked thoughts regarding this earl might lead her astray.

  She eased back against a broad oak, its trunk firm behind her, and rested her lute upon the ground. She slipped Henri-the-Pebble from her pocket, fingering the surface absently as she considered the path her life had taken.

  She closed her eyes to rest a bit and her mind began to drift.

  *

  The clock ticked much too loudly. Madeleine found herself wanting to cover her ears. She crossed the crowded room, hearing bits of muffled conversation as she passed. She had the oddest sensation that people were talking about her.

  She glanced over her shoulder. No one in the room would meet her eyes. She hurried from the crowd and entered the room that housed the buffet supper.

  It was wrong, terribly wrong. The air was filled with a putrid scent. She gagged and swallowed hard. She walked over to the tables laden with rotting food. Maggots and flies covered the many dishes. All at once, the quail and dove sat up from their dressings and sauce, squawking and screeching. The birds tried to fly away, only to fall to the floor, flapping helplessly.

  Feral dogs appeared from the open doorway and proceeded to trap the birds, inhaling them with grunts of pleasure. Madeleine watched in horror as they rapidly devoured the decaying meal. Within moments, the dogs had finished off the feast, looking for something more to whet their appetites. They seemed to catch Madeleine’s scent and she began backing away from them, her mouth dry, her pulse pounding.

  The pack rushed her and she screamed and ran to the doors. She passed through and slammed them shut, wincing as the dogs threw their massive bodies against the heavy panels.

  She raced back to where the guests were, her limp much more pronounced now. She arrived disheveled, her hair streaming down her back. She must warn her guests of the rabid animals.

  Suddenly, the strains of music within the hall ceased. The lights dimmed. Everyone turned their attention to the top of the staircase. Madeleine followed their stares.

  A lone figure stood poised there, dressed in black from head to foot, his face in shadow. Madeleine sensed an innate evil emanating from the man. Slowly, he began descending the stairs.

  She knew he was coming for her.

  The throng buzzed now, their words indistinguishable. The man moved steadily down the steps but she was frozen in place, helpless to move. When he got to the bottom, he moved in her direction. The way parted until he reached her. Suddenly, the light was brilliant, almost blinding her, but she suddenly recognized him.

  Henri.

  She exclaimed, “Henri! The feast has been ruined. The food is not edible. The dogs. Oh, God, the dogs! Henri—”

  “Silence!” He placed his hands on her shoulders, his fingers tightening against her tender flesh.

  “Henri, not here,” she begged. “Not in front of—”

  “Our guests? Come now, Madeleine, they all realize that you must be disciplined.” Henri smiled at the visitors. “Surely you see I must do something about her?”

  Murmurs of assent echoed throughout the hall. Madeleine tried to tear free but Henri’s grasp held firm, causing her to cringe.

  “Lady de Picassaret is so perfect.”

  “Henri’s wife is so clever, so amusing.”

  “De Picassaret has his hands full with that one.”

  Madeleine heard fragments of the comments. The voices in the room grew louder and louder, as did their laughter. She managed to break free from Henri’s hold and stumble across the hall, watching as the faces of the guests changed. Gone were the placid features she had first seen. Instead, their countenances took on a macabre quality, twisting and melting.

  She tried to open the door and escape but it was locked. She rattled the knob with all her strength, to no avail. Turning, she saw the strange creatures closing in on her, led by the dark, solemn figure of Henri.

  “You must be disciplined, Madeleine. No good will come to you unless you are properly corrected. Come here, my dearest, and take your punishment with grace.”

  She screamed and screamed, but no one heard her.

  *

  Madeleine awoke with a start, a cool sheen of sweat covering her brow. She had dreamed of Henri again. Her hands were clammy. Fear had left a sour taste on her tongue. Would it be like this forever? Would thoughts of Henri always haunt her dreams?

  Pushing her tangled hair from her face, she sat up, having no idea of the time and knowing she must start back. There were still two more performances that day. She prayed she hadn’t missed one. She hurried back through the forest and into the swarm of people, soon arriving at the stage, her lute in hand.

  “Sweet Jesu, girl, it’s about time you showed your face,” grumbled Farley. “I thought you’d abandoned us.”

  “No, Farley, I’d not do that.” She placed a kiss upon his brow. “You’ve been much too kind to me.”

  The burly man blushed hotly. “Then be kind to our audience and work your magic,” he told her, muttering to himself as he walked away.

  Madeleine scanned the crowd, but she caught no sight of Lord Montayne or his companion. With mixed feelings, she prepared to begin her song
. Before she struck the first note, Evan pulled at her tunic.

  “Maddie?” he whispered loudly. “Mama needs ye. She’s awful bad, she is.”

  Before she could reply, Osbert slipped in next to her. “’Tis bad off she is, Madeleine. Elspeth’s been with her. She sent me to fetch you.”

  Madeleine appeared torn. “But Farley—”

  Osbert snorted. “Forget about Farley. Elspeth will deal with him. You’re needed for more important things.”

  “But York—”

  York appeared as she spoke. His leg was heavily bandaged and he used a makeshift crutch but he hobbled up to the edge of the stage nonetheless.

  “I’m fine, Madeleine. Go to Gwenith.”

  She hesitated a moment.

  “It’s all right, Madeleine,” York assured her. “My lady friend who helped put me in this”—he tapped his leg gently—“thinks I’m doing a brave thing by performing when I feel so poorly. I’m sure,” he said, a wide grin breaking out on his handsome features, “she’ll reward me properly for my efforts. Now off with you.”

  She needed no further urging, taking Evan’s hand in her own and hurrying back to their tent.

  Gwenith lay there, flushed and feverish. Madeleine ran to her, touching her cheeks, frightened by the scalding flesh.

  She turned to Elspeth and said, “Please boil some more of the barley.”

  The woman began muttering in her thick Scottish brogue, mostly words Madeleine couldn’t understand and had no time to try and decipher. She and Elspeth had disagreed heatedly about Gwenith’s care from the beginning. The older woman had been in favor of sending immediately for a barber to bleed Gwenith, which Madeleine objected to vehemently. She had seen the practice used several times in her youth and had lost a favorite cousin in that manner. She was determined to try other methods to save Gwenith.

  Instead, Madeleine implemented the practices of her gentle mother. Cadena had had a way with herbs and had freely passed along her knowledge to her only daughter.