A Promise of Tomorrow

by Aston, Alexa

  “We saw no one on the roads. That’s a good sign,” Garrett said quietly. Ashby saw him turn to Madeleine. “It reminds me of another time,” he said to his wife, the look of love in his eyes.

  Marielle shot a questioning look at Ashby. He didn’t answer, as the door opened and the Bouchards slipped out, beaming smiles upon their faces.

  “Oh, Madeleine.” Cadena looked from one sleeping child to the other. “They are so beautiful,” she whispered as Robert smiled at his grandchildren.

  “And very tired, Maman. Let us get them abed.” She brushed a kiss upon her father’s cheek and took his arm to lead him back in. Garrett and Ashby took the children to a waiting chamber and placed them upon the bed.

  Cadena followed them and said, “I shall stay with them. I would not want them to awake alone in unfamiliar surroundings.”

  The two men returned to the others. Garrett insisted Madeleine lie down as well.

  “I will wake you in a few hours, my love, but now you need your rest. I insist.”

  She didn’t protest, which Ashby took to mean she was exhausted. Garrett returned a few minutes later.

  “Bread and wine awaits you,” Robert indicated. “Come. Let us sit.”

  He led them into a small dining room. Ashby’s mouth watered at the smell of hot bread. They sat, Robert pouring them all wine. After they settled in, he spoke.

  “No word has come from the cardinal yet, Garrett. I know your message said it should be forthcoming.”

  “If none comes by the morrow, I will go and see Marc the day after,” Marielle said, her voice surprisingly firm.

  “We will all go together,” Ashby told her. “You shall not go into that lion’s den alone.”

  *

  They spent a quiet day with the Bouchards yet Marielle sensed the charged current under the surface of polite talk. When the next day came with still no word, she set out with Ashby and both Lord and Lady Montayne accompanied her.

  As they drew close to Monteville, Marielle’s fear became physical. She clasped her trembling hands in her lap, willing them to be still. Her shoulders sagged. Her teeth began to chatter. She locked her jaw hard against the movement. She refused to let Marc de la Tresse see her quake in his presence.

  She felt the stares of the workers in the vineyards as they rode by on their way toward the castle. The ripples of activity ceased as they passed. Marielle forced her eyes to the road ahead. What she saw surprised her.

  The heightened security immediately leaped out at her. Activity buzzed upon the wall-walk. Jean-Paul always had men posted along it but it was a mere skeleton’s crew compared to the numbers she now saw. Her fantasies of Ashby rescuing her parents and helping them all escape Marc’s clutches died quickly.

  It seemed odd to be stopped at the entrance to Monteville. She had not realized she would have to ask for permission to enter her former home. She’d been away just two months and yet it seemed like a lifetime ago that she’d been a part of daily life here.

  Her party of four found themselves escorted by armed guards as they passed through the outer and inner baileys and into the castle itself. As they made their way down the corridor, Marielle remembered the long days of working at her tapestries. The stolen hours with her treasured books. She looked around for Jean-Paul, knowing he was no longer there, but she couldn’t help it.

  A fire roared in the grate of the great hall, its shadows dancing along the walls, as they were led in and seated. Those walls were ringed with men, soldiers of Marc’s. They swarmed everywhere throughout the castle. Marielle wondered why so many men were necessary.

  They waited almost half an hour in silence before Marc sailed through the doors and came to stand before them.

  “Ah, greetings to all. I am glad to see my English neighbor again.” He inclined his head to Garrett, who wore a wary expression on his face.

  “This must be Lady Montayne. I know your parents.” He swept a quick kiss across Madeleine’s knuckles. Her features remained bland and indifferent.

  “Fitz Waryn.” Marc’s tone changed slightly as he acknowledged Ashby. He looked cautiously at Ashby, who returned his alert stare.

  Finally, he turned to her. “Marielle. It does me good to see you again.” He crossed to her and lay his hands upon her shoulders, grazing cool lips against her cheek. She fought recoiling from his touch and remained still.

  “Marc.” She was pleased her voice was even as he linked her arm through his.

  Marc turned and gestured to his visitors. “I thank you for escorting my fiancée home safely. I must insist you all stay for our upcoming wedding.”

  He gazed at her steadily. “Several of your relatives have already arrived for the festivities. I believe three of your siblings have been visiting, along with your parents.”

  She stiffened against him. He sank his fingers deep into her upper arm but he’d already driven his point home.

  “And their families?” she asked, trying not to faint.

  Marc smiled genially. “They were unable to make it, I am afraid. Still, all the Matesses will be so happy to know you are home again and ready to wed me.” His eyes held an amused light, as if only he were in on a secret. “They are . . . eager to return to their own kin.”

  “Might I see them? And my parents?”

  “Of course. They will be thrilled.” He turned to his guests. “Please, be seated, mes amis.” He snapped a finger. “Wine for my guests. We will return shortly.”

  Marc turned to her. “I will escort you to your family.”

  Ashby rose to protest their leaving alone but Marielle gave him a pleading look, asking him with her eyes to cause no trouble.

  They left the great hall leisurely. Once they’d exited, Marc sped up, dragging her along, causing her to stumble. The genial smile upon his lips quickly faded and he no longer kept up a pretense before visitors. He railed quietly at her as they moved along the corridors and down the stairs, deep into the bowels of Monteville.

  “You little witch,” he hissed. “How dare you run off with a lover?”

  “You think Ashby was my lover?” Marielle asked defiantly. “That is merely one sign how poor your judgment is, Marc.”

  His fingers dug more sharply into her. “Watch your tongue,” he warned. “And no more lies. If the fool was not your lover before you left France, surely he has been paid in full by now!”

  “You think I bartered my body for freedom?”

  Marc chuckled low. “It does not matter. You have returned. You are mine.” His eyes gleamed at her. “You will always be mine.”

  They reached the lowest part of Monteville. Marielle had been to the dungeons only once, at Jean-Paul’s insistence. He’d proudly shown her every inch of Monteville when she arrived as a young bride. She still remembered the dank smells, the dim lighting, and rats that freely roamed. She vowed never to return here.

  Until now.

  A mixture of musty odors and rotting decay filled the air. What lay dead, she didn’t know—and wouldn’t dare venture a guess. Marielle fought the panic that welled inside her, the racing heart and screaming mind that willed her feet to flee from such a godforsaken place.

  They passed several guards, all men of good size and alert features. Marc had paid a pretty penny to hire such soldiers.

  He paused at one cell and gestured for a light. A knight brought a torch from its sconce. Its light illuminated the small space. Marielle caught sight of two people hovering together in the damp chill. They raised sunken eyes to her. Eyes with no life.

  Suddenly, a low moan permeated the dungeon. It was almost animal in nature, as if wounded. It came from the shell that was her mother.

  “Blanche, quit that noise,” Marc commanded. “My men tire of it.”

  Her mother collapsed onto the floor, muttering words Marielle couldn’t catch. Her father came to face her, his bony fingers twisting around the bars of his cell. The accusatory look in his eyes nearly did her in.

  “Papa,” she began.

&n
bsp; “Get me out!” he roared. “You careless, thoughtless, ungrateful child. Look at your mother. Look at what you have done to her. To us all.”

  Gautier continued to rant at her. “You were always a wild child. Unlike Arielle and the rest of our children. We couldn’t understand why God punished us with such an unruly daughter.”

  “You are spawned from the Devil himself,” a voice called out.

  Marielle turned and saw one of her brothers and two of her sisters imprisoned in the next cell.

  Her brother screamed obscenities at her, as her sisters joined in.

  “You never cared for any of us,” one sister accused. “You lived in your own world. You barely acknowledged us.”

  “You were always a troublemaker,” the other one said. “Causing mischief left and right, making more work for all the rest of us. And look at us now. Taken from our families. Locked away and starved because you refuse to wed a comte. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t trade places with you?” she shrieked. “You married one aristocrat and can wed another—and yet you refuse?”

  The accusations continued for some minutes, her brother and father joining in again, their words ugly and bitter, blending into a cacophony of anger, filling the dungeon. They all blamed her for their lot. Not Marc. They screamed. Begged. Pleaded with her for their release.

  Marielle stood there, dumbfounded. Her siblings were the ones who had barely acknowledged her presence, being so much older than she and Arielle. She had only been a small child and certainly not guilty of the blame they laid at her feet. What she couldn’t fathom was that all their bitterness was directed toward her. Marc was the one who had taken them from the lives they had known. He had forced them to become prisoners in this dank dungeon. Yet their rage was only focused upon her.

  She could take no more. Their conditions were beyond awful. Despite not being responsible for their confinement, guilt flooded her. She rushed to assure them of her good intentions, despite the hurt and rejection their cruel words brought her.

  “Hush, my family. Hush. You will be free. I will see to it. I will do whatever it takes but I promise you will leave this place of doom.” She looked pleadingly at Marc.

  “Yes, I can see your family leaving . . . and never wanting to come back. Of course, Blanche and Gautier will make their permanent home with us. Their presence will assure me of your good behavior.”

  “Here?” Marielle’s voice cracked. Surely he wouldn’t hold them in this black cavern.

  “That depends upon you, Marielle. If all goes well, they may take rooms in the east wing. If not . . .” His voice faded, the threat obvious.

  She touched his sleeve as he turned to go. “Can they be freed now? All of them? Please.” She hated pleading but she would do anything to remove her family from such vile circumstances.

  “No.” The word rang loudly and clearly throughout the dungeon, echoing emptily. “Once the wedding ceremony has been performed, I guarantee their safe passage.”

  He walked away, Marielle following, the cries of her relatives tormenting her soul as they ascended the stairs. Waiting for the cardinal’s return message was no longer an option. She knew what must be done.

  She would marry Marc de la Tresse as soon as possible.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ashby fiddled with a loose string at the hem of his tunic. A casual observer would think him totally preoccupied, but that was far from the truth. He studied the great hall—its size, the number of soldiers in it, the various entryways. He glanced briefly at Garrett, who was in quiet conversation with Madeleine.

  Suddenly, he sensed Marielle’s approach. He turned as she and Marc entered the room. Her eyes briefly met his. They were dull. Lifeless. As if she’d already resigned herself to the anticipated marriage. Ashby wondered just how wretched the conditions were in Monteville’s dungeon to cause the spirit to go out from her so quickly, much less the kind of reception she’d received from her imprisoned kin.

  Marc immediately came to the center where they were gathered, Marielle trailing behind him. As she approached, Ashby saw she was visibly shaken. He longed to punish Marc de la Tresse for causing the woman he loved such grief. Running a sword through him seemed too generous.

  The new Comte of Monteville signaled for more wine to be poured then he raised it for a toast.

  “Shall we drink to my bride?” He gave Marielle a mocking smile. “I feel certain she is as eager as I to seal our union.” He slipped an arm about Marielle’s waist. Ashby flinched at the motion.

  “I have called for our priest.” Marc looked about the room. “I would have thought him here by now.” He gave Marielle a squeeze, pulling her closer to his side. “We can adjourn to the chapel for the wedding mass. I will have the old fool meet us there.”

  Madeleine spoke up, a charming smile lighting her features. “Oh, I think it’s lovely you want to show off your chapel to us. I’m sure it’s a fine setting for all your guests that gather for the wedding. It’s fortunate Marielle has so much time to prepare for the ceremony.”

  Ashby noted the puzzled expression on Marc’s face and looked back at Madeleine. His friend was up to something. He wished he knew what.

  Their host motioned to a servant who scurried over. Marc took a sheaf of papers from him. He set them down on a nearby trestle table.

  “The contracts for the betrothal are drawn.” He gave Marielle a smirk. “No dowry will be required of you, my dearest. You have provided your friends as witnesses. That will be all I ask of you.”

  Marc pulled a large, gold ring from his pocket, holding it up for inspection. “This will do for now, Marielle.”

  Ashby recognized the heavy, gold ring as the one Marielle had worn during her marriage to Jean-Paul. She must have left it behind when she escaped from Monteville. How spiteful of Marc to use the very ring his brother had gifted Marielle with.

  “Once the betrothal contracts have been signed, I see no reason for us to wait. Do you, Marielle? We could be married today, here with your friends to share in your joy.”

  Ashby watched as Marielle closed her eyes for a moment, as if to gather her courage for what would take place next.

  “Oh, really? You must not have known, Comte. No one can marry during Advent—or the twelve days of Christmas. You’ll have to wait until after Epiphany before your priest can speak the nuptial mass.”

  All attention in the room immediately swung to Madeleine. She smiled sweetly at her husband. “Remember, Garrett, how you were mad to marry before Christmas and how we had to wait?”

  Understanding dawned upon Garrett’s face. Ashby, too, recalled how Stanbury’s priest refused to marry the couple. Madeleine had looked for an excuse not to marry Garrett since she was already married to Henri de Picassaret at the time. The respite gave her time to slip away to London, Garrett hot on her heels.

  Ashby watched Garrett slip his wife’s arm into the crook of his elbow.

  “She is right, you know. I had totally forgotten about the Church’s law,” replied Garrett. “Well, Marc, this will give Marielle time to plan a proper wedding. You can have guests come from far and wide since it will be weeks before your vows can be spoken.”

  At that moment, Monteville’s priest entered the great hall. He shuffled to where everyone gathered near the fire. Ashby wondered how he put one foot in front of the other. The man looked three times older than anyone present. The grayish pallor of his skin made him look as if he already had one foot in the grave.

  Marc bent and spoke in the cleric’s ear. Ashby saw him begin to shake his head. Whatever the priest said angered Marc a great deal. Ashby assumed he confirmed what Madeleine had revealed.

  The priest left the room, all eyes watching him and then returning to Marc. His face had gone bright scarlet with rage.

  “Then I will get a special dispensation!” he proclaimed.

  Garrett interrupted further thought. “I know all about that. A special dispensation must go from your bishop to the cardinal to Rome itsel
f. By then, with the time it would take to wait for a reply, you could be married without it.” Garrett smiled broadly. “But what’s another month? You will have the rest of your life to spend with Marielle.”

  Ashby expelled the breath he’d held, his gaze finding Marielle. Her mouth trembled slightly. He knew she was trying not to give up hope. At least this bought them some time to try and extricate her—and her family—from the situation.

  Marc looked ready to explode. He’d now grown purple in the face. A servant rushed to him, fussing over him. Marc pushed the man aside. Instead, he went and filled a goblet with wine, which he downed with remarkable speed. He poured another and drank it, too.

  Ashby noted Etienne, the Monteville steward, hurried to Marc’s side. He got Marc’s attention and whispered something low, which Ashby didn’t catch. Immediately, Marc’s color went from dark to almost ghostly white. Whatever news Etienne had shared must be monumental.

  Marc reached up and took a scroll from the steward. He sat in the nearest chair and broke the seal, unrolling it along the table. Ashby instinctively moved closer, wanting to know what caused Marc such distress.

  The parchment was thick, of very good quality, and the wax seal abnormally large. It could only mean one thing.

  The King of France had sent a message to Marc de la Tresse.

  Ashby watched Marc’s lips move silently as he read the text. He rose quickly and looked flustered. Nervous. Ashby wondered what the king wanted.

  Marc grabbed the scroll, holding it to his chest. He looked about and motioned for Donatien and Etienne to follow him. As he left, he seemed to remember his guests. He paused in the doorway.

  “Please stay a bit. I will have refreshments brought to you. I have matters that must be attended to at once.” He turned and quickly exited the room.

  The four quickly closed ranks into a small circle. Ashby touched Madeleine’s elbow and gave it a squeeze.

  “Congratulations on remembering about no marriages during Advent. You really threw him off course.”