Song of the Heart (Medieval Runaway Wives Book 1)

by Alexa Aston

As she waited for Elspeth, Madeleine nursed Gwenith patiently, wetting cloths with cool water and pressing them to her friend’s hot skin.

  Finally, a sullen Elspeth returned from the cookfire and passed the barley to her. After mixing in some honey, Madeleine coaxed Gwenith to sip it.

  “Come on, love, just a bit more,” she urged.

  Her friend sighed. “Ye’re a tyrant, Maddie, but I’m glad ye’re my tyrant.” She drank the last bit, falling back onto her pillow.

  Her fever eased afterward but every cough stained her handkerchief with bits of blood, black and thick.

  Despite her best efforts, Madeleine realized that Gwenith was growing worse. She brushed a strand of hair from her friend’s face. “I’m off to fetch a physician, Gwenith, dear. Lie here and rest. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Gwenith protested, no louder than a weak kitten. “Oh, Maddie, there’s none to be had ’round here, that’s for sure. The best ye’ll find is a barber. Savage beasts,” she muttered.

  “No, Gwenith,” Madeleine assured her. “None of that foolish nonsense. I’ll return as soon as I can, dearest, and I will find someone to help.” She tenderly kissed Gwenith’s brow. “Get some rest. That’s a direct order from your very own tyrant.”

  She slipped to the far end of the tent and lifted the hem of her skirts, feeling carefully before placing her finger into a loose stitch. She broke a few of the threads, removing what she needed and putting the ring into her pocket with the pebble. She kept her hand there, afraid she’d lose the precious item.

  Then she made her way toward a stall in the heart of the faire. Old Pascal traveled this circuit and had bought a piece of jewelry from Madeleine when she’d first arrived two months before. She’d been low on coin, having forfeited the money paid for her passage to France, and he’d been generous in the price they’d settled upon. She hoped he’d be decent again.

  As she approached his booth, she removed the sapphire ring from her pocket, having left the matching bracelet within her hem. The pair had been a birthday present from Henri, who liked to keep up appearances with his friends. Otherwise, Madeleine doubted he’d have gifted her with even a hardened bread crust to mark that day of celebration.

  Before she could address Pascal, she jumped when a low voice said in her ear, “So you’ve moved on from cloaks to jewels now. Where did you steal such a fine ring from, Madeleine?”

  Chapter Nine

  “You’ve judged me poorly, Lord Montayne,” Madeleine huffed, pocketing the jewelry and stepping away from Pascal’s ears. The tradesman might be charitable but he was a ferocious gossip. Madeleine had no intention of airing her affairs before him.

  She managed several paces away from the booth when the nobleman roughly took her by the arm. “Prove it,” he said as he swung her around to face him.

  “I owe you no explanation, my lord,” she curtly replied, shrugging off his hand. She turned and moved in the opposite direction.

  He was immediately by her side, grabbing her wrist and dragging her across the faire grounds. She faltered as she attempted to keep up with him. He stopped and helped her to an upright position. She felt her cheeks burning brightly as she glowered at him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said gently, releasing his hold on her.

  “I have a slight limp,” she retorted. “Usually it’s not noticeable unless it seems that I’m being dragged along by a madman at an unreasonable gait. That always brings it out.” She smoothed her tunic and tucked stray wisps of hair away from her face.

  “Where are we going?” she demanded of him.

  He looked at her blankly. “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re not sure?” She glared at him, mumbling under her breath. “You are stupide.”

  Madeleine noticed he raised a brow and seemed to assess her. She hoped he hadn’t heard her remark. She must be sure everything she spoke was in English. It was hard, though, since the man riled her anger, making her want to lapse into French.

  “Come, we’ll sit over here.” He indicated a large stump at the edge of the pasture. He motioned for her to follow him.

  She knew it was useless to avoid him any longer. She only worried about getting back to Gwenith as soon as possible.

  “What can I do for you, my lord?” she asked with forced bravado, hiding her inner fear.

  “Just who are you, Madeleine?”

  “Nothing but a poor mummer, my lord. Practicing my skills whenever I meet new people. You know,” she said, eyeing him up and down, “you were quite talented yourself, not letting on as to your true identity. Perhaps you’d care to join our little group?”

  “Quit provoking me!” he snapped.

  “Then don’t provoke me,” she answered sharply. “Leave me alone.” She calmed herself and continued in a lower tone. “I will return your cloak. I’m no thief, my lord, and somehow I would have seen the garment returned to you. I appreciate the help you gave me that night. I regret I took the cloak by mistake.”

  “But why did you take off? As if you had something to hide? Are you running from the law?”

  Madeleine sighed. “I had reasons, my lord, too complicated to share.” She glanced around impatiently. “I must go now.”

  “And sell your stolen ring?”

  She trembled, having reached her breaking point. “It’s not stolen. I sell it for a friend. She’s very ill.” The tears welled in her eyes. “I must have money to buy medicines for her. I must find a physician, as well. She is depending upon me.”

  “Is this Gwenith of whom you speak?”

  Madeleine started. “I see you’ve learned much about me, my lord.” She wiped at her tears. “Yes, it’s for my dear Gwenith. She means the world to me. Though we are not blood kin, we are closer than sisters.” She rose and began walking away from him but stopped and said, “If you’ll come to the master mummer’s tent, I’ll see that your cloak is there.” Her features softened. “I thank you for its use. It was kind of you to lend it to me—and I’m not used to such kindness.”

  *

  Her smile was tentative but beautiful all the same. Garrett let her leave to finish her transaction. He watched her until she was gone from his sight, noticing for the first time the slight hitch in her gait. He wondered what had caused such a young woman to have a limp, unless it was something she’d possessed since birth.

  She’d said she was selling the jewel for a friend. Did that mean it belonged to Gwenith, and Madeleine pawned the ring for the sick woman? Or had she lifted the piece from an unsuspecting lady, ready to sell it to aid her friend?

  Why would a common mummer possess so fine a piece? She had told him nothing but lies from the time they’d first met. Why should he believe her words now?

  He had not gotten a good look but he had seen enough to recognize the gemstones as sapphires, and good quality at that.

  His curiosity got the better of him. Eventually, the lies would have to end. He didn’t know why he was so drawn to Madeleine and he didn’t intend to let her disappear. Just as he had searched her out when she hadn’t performed at the play that afternoon, he would find her again.

  He returned to the old man’s stall, where he watched Madeleine conduct the end of her transaction. She seemed a bit disappointed. Her mouth was tightly drawn, no trace of the smile she’d left him with evident now. She hurried away and he gave her a minute before approaching the vendor.

  The man stood taller as Garrett approached.

  “My fine lord, how might I help you today? I have many wares to be had.” He waved a hand across his display. “You’ll find none finer than Old Pascal’s stall.” The vendor flashed a toothless grin at Garrett.

  “The woman. Did she sell a sapphire ring?”

  Pascal nodded. “Yes, my lord.” Suddenly, a look of panic entered Pascal’s eyes and he sputtered, “’Twas not yours, my lord? I had no idea. I’ve dealt with the wench before and nothing seemed amiss.”

  “No,” Garrett assured him. “I was merely interested in its purc
hase.”

  Pascal visibly relaxed. “Would you like to see it, my lord?”

  Garrett nodded and the vendor reached under his displayed wares. He brought out the ring and handed it to Garrett. As he’d suspected, the gems were of high quality, catching the sun’s rays and sparkling in his hands.

  “Name your price.”

  Pascal seemed taken aback but quickly recovered, giving Garrett a figure. Garrett narrowed his eyes. “Is that what you gave Madeleine for the ring?” he asked icily.

  “Nay, my lord. I’m just a poor trader and must make a profit. I gave the girl the best she could get under the circumstances, this not being London. It’s not just anywhere that you can sell a ring the likes of this one.”

  Garrett reached into the purse at his waist and withdrew a handful of coins. He casually tossed them upon the table, noting the gleam in Pascal’s eyes. The old man lifted a gold coin and brought it to his mouth. Turning to the side, he bit into it. Satisfied, he scooped up the remaining coins and placed them under his table.

  Pascal nodded to Garrett. “You’ve made a fine purchase, my lord. Your lady will be proud to wear such fine stones.”

  Garrett kept his remarks to himself and moved away. He wound his way through the intricate stall area, where everything from salt to weapons were being bartered and sold. The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, and many people were trying to conclude their transactions.

  He found the last play of the day being performed. The troubadour narrating was talented but his song had none of the depth that Madeleine’s voice had held. He wandered behind the stage, where the group was in a frenzy.

  He spied a fat monk emerging from one of the many tents pitched in the area.

  “Were you here to see Gwenith?” Garrett asked.

  The monk looked surprised. He studied Garrett carefully before answering, his eyes disappearing into slits within the folds of his face. “Yes, my lord. You know the woman?”

  Garrett nodded curtly. “How is she?”

  The monk shook his head, the rolls of fat now jiggling. “Not good, my lord. She is rapidly fading. Her fever runs hot and there’s blood brought forth with every cough.” He crossed himself. “May God be merciful.”

  “What would she need to become well?”

  The holy man took a step back then tapped a fat finger against his jowl. “I’m not sure she can be made whole again, my lord. It could be the sweating sickness. More than likely ’tis scrofula. She would need total bed rest, of course, and none of this moving about from place to place. Constant care, too.”

  The monk narrowed his eyes. “I’ll pray for her, my lord. ’Twould be right to light a candle for her.” He hesitated, eyeing Garrett hopefully.

  When Garrett did not respond, the monk shrugged. “It was only a thought, my lord. A small donation and mayhap God will relieve her burden.”

  Garrett scowled, not believing a coin offered and a lit candle would make even a ghost of a chance. Yet for reasons he could not explain, he tossed the monk a gold coin. Ignoring the thanks lavished upon him, he dismissed the monk with a wave of his hand and quietly entered the tent he’d seen the man come from.

  He hovered in the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the faint light inside. Propped up on a pallet was a woman who, although pretty, was obviously quite ill. Her eyes burned unnaturally bright in her wan face. Her pallor contrasted sharply with the vibrant red hair cascading around her shoulders.

  Madeleine sat by her side, murmuring soothing words to her. She held Gwenith’s hand in one of hers, the other pushing the hair from her brow. A young boy, his face stained with tears, huddled next to Madeleine, clutching her skirts tightly.

  Garrett stepped back outside the tent, his emotions too close to the surface. He prided himself on his control but the scene he witnessed brought back too many painful memories. He had spent many hours at his beloved older brother’s bedside before Luke expired from typhoid fever. His mother had begged Garrett to leave, afraid he would also fall ill. In a strange way, Garrett had secretly hoped he would. He had idolized Luke, following him around like a puppy his entire life. If Luke were gone, then life had not seemed worth living.

  Garrett remembered the last time they’d spoken. It was late, the castle bedded down for the night. Most of the servants avoided Luke’s chamber, their fears of the fever keeping both them and Luke’s friends away.

  A single candle burned next to the bedside, casting eerie shadows on the wall. Luke had been sleeping, his body restless, flinching and twitching. Suddenly, he’d opened his eyes, which burned with the typhus, making them shine brightly.

  Grabbing Garrett’s hand, he whispered, “I still have the scar, you know.”

  Confused, Garrett asked, “What scar?”

  His brother grinned mischievously. “The one on my shoulder. The one you put there, you cretin.”

  Garrett chuckled. “I wanted to hunt, just as you and Father did.”

  “And I was your quarry?”

  Garrett shrugged. “I was only four, Luke.” He grinned at the memory. “I thought Father would flay me when I charged you with that spear.”

  Luke shuddered. “How you lifted the damned thing is beyond me.”

  “I know,” Garrett said softly.

  Luke slipped back into sleep as quickly as he’d awakened. Those were the last words he’d spoken. Garrett held his hand for an hour before he’d felt the warmth give way. He was still holding it when the morning rays cast their first light upon a new day. The first he’d faced without Luke. Unluckily for him, he never caught the fever. No hovering between life and death for Garrett. But he’d never been the same. With Luke’s passing, something of him, too, had died. With Lynnette’s abandoning him for another man, it seemed what little feeling he’d had left had gone, as well. Only at rare times did he feel anything, and that was when Lyssa brought a smile to his lips.

  Mayhap that was what was different about Madeleine. She had caused him to feel again. How, he did not know, but in some inexplicable way, she made him want to live again. She had a spark of vitality about her, capturing his imagination as Luke had all those years ago. When she spoke, he had an interest in whatever came from her mouth. Most of it had been absolute nonsense, but it was entertaining, all the same. She had a wit about her. For a woman, she thought fast on her feet. He relished the thought of verbally sparring with her again, which brought a rare smile to his face. He was only five and twenty and had many more years left to him. It was time he shrugged off his complacency and enjoyed life.

  He stopped a barrel-chested man. “Who is in charge of your troupe?”

  The man scratched his head. “Farley is, though if the truth be told, his wife, Elspeth, runs things.” He chuckled. “Farley included, that she does.”

  “Where might I find this Elspeth and Farley?”

  He was directed to a tent that was much larger than the others. Not for luxury on the part of the owners, though. As he entered, he found he could barely move, so great was the clutter inside it. The tent must house every costume and prop used in their performances.

  Garrett wove his way around to the voices he heard.

  “York did an adequate job, dearest.”

  “But he’s not Madeleine, Elspeth. The girl has something about her. I can’t explain it. The crowds want to see her, hear her, not silly York crooning away.”

  “At one time, ye were happy to have York, Farley.”

  “Well, he’s not enough anymore. You must insist Madeleine continue to perform, Elspeth.”

  Elspeth started to answer her husband but stopped and turned in Garrett’s direction. “Who’s skulking about there? Come forward,” she commanded.

  Garrett came to stand in front of her.

  “I’m sorry to be so abrupt, my lord,” she apologized nervously. “Ye must be Lord Montayne, come for yer cloak. Madeleine said ye’d be by for it.” She fetched the garment and handed it to him.

  “Where do you go from here?” Garrett
asked.

  Farley answered, “Why, we go to Lord Denton’s. Summerville way.”

  Garrett nodded. “Yes, I know the estate. I’m from Stanbury myself.”

  Farley nodded. “Yes, we’ve been that way before, my lord. The properties are fairly close to one another.”

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  Garrett exited Farley’s tent several minutes later. He returned to the tent Madeleine was in and slipped inside.

  As before, she was next to Gwenith, the boy’s head now in her lap. He was fast asleep. She stroked his hair fondly. As Garrett moved toward her, she raised her head. Surprise registered on her features.

  He could tell she’d been crying. Her eyes were swollen and puffy. The front of her tunic was damp and rumpled. He knelt down beside her and placed a hand upon her shoulder.

  “What are you doing here, my lord?” she whispered. “Did you not find Farley’s tent? I left your cloak there.” Even as she said it, she glanced at the cloak draped over his arm.

  “Yes, Madeleine, I’ve gotten it back.” He cupped her chin with his hand and stroked her trembling bottom lip with his thumb. Then he leaned forward and gently kissed her.

  “Au revoir, Madeleine.”

  Rising, he quickly left her.

  Chapter Ten

  Madeleine watched Lord Montayne disappear from the enclosed space. His presence had filled the small tent. Now the place seemed empty and forlorn.

  She reached up, grazing her fingertips against her lips in quiet wonder. She could still feel his warm breath, the press of his mouth softly against hers.

  What had possessed him to kiss her?

  Madeleine would never regret that he had. Henri had kissed her on rare occasions and only in public when duty called for it, always on her brow or cheek. The only time he’d kissed her on her mouth was to seal their vows before the priest on their wedding day. When Madeleine questioned why he did not kiss her at other times, Henri informed her that kissing had nothing to do with making an heir and so he was uninterested in it.