A Promise of Tomorrow

by Aston, Alexa

  “Did he let me grow as a man? Achieve on my own? No, I was forever his slave, performing the tasks he refused to do. I had not a crumb of bread I could call my own, so great was my poverty. No respect from even the lowest servant. No friends to call my own. Every waking hour was spent in service to my brother, the powerful comte. And when I told him of a beautiful young girl I had seen in a merchant’s shop in Libourne, he immediately offered for her.”

  Marc’s hand slammed against the intricate latticework again. “He made her his wife and flaunted it front of me for years. I had wanted her. She had a freshness and innocence about her. I knew I could bear all else if I had her by my side.”

  Marielle’s grip tightened on his hand. Ashby gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

  “Oh, stand in judgment of me if you will. I care not.” Marc sighed wearily. “All is lost.”

  “It’s not my right to judge but merely advise you.”

  Marc laughed. Ashby noted the rising hysteria in his voice. The nobleman was close to the breaking point.

  “As if your advice would change things. My evils are legion, Father. I am doomed, by either your God or the king himself. I have no more need to admit my sins to you. Know only that I have broken every commandment there is. I have lied and cheated and sabotaged my fellow nobles and vineyard competitors. I have coveted all my brother had and killed him to gain it.

  “Even now, his widow’s family is imprisoned in my dungeons, in order to force her into marriage with me. Now that, too, will only be a shattered dream. I received a summons from the king today and rode out with my men, sure that he would confront me with infecting Brideau’s wines. Instead, Brideau and his knights awaited me several miles down the road. For all I know, it was Brideau himself who sent the missive luring me from Monteville. When we were far enough along the road, he attacked.”

  “And you escaped?” Ashby asked.

  Marc sighed. “After a fight for my life. Twenty men accompanied me, Father. I doubt even two survived the slaughter. I have nowhere to turn and will have no life with my Marielle now. I have crawled like a mongrel into Blessed Heart and have spilled my story to you for naught. I care not to be absolved from my sins, Father. They are mine. I wear them as a badge of all I have survived. I have kept my end of this unholy bargain and confessed to you all my misdeeds. I now seek your aid. I need a horse and a sword to ride to Monteville.”

  “We keep no weapons in the house of Our Lord.”

  “Then a horse, damn you.” Marc’s impatience spilled forth.

  A vicious sneeze erupted. Marielle had fought the urge for several minutes but the musty confessional was full of dust on its floor. The priests in residence must not take the time to sweep the booths but once a year.

  She muffled it as best she could, but her usual, high hiccup squeaked out afterward.

  “Marielle?”

  She heard the surprise in Marc’s voice and cringed. He had ridiculed her for years over that very sneeze. Now it would mean their downfall.

  “That damnable sneeze!” Marc roared. “I would know it anywhere.”

  “Stay here,” Ashby commanded her.

  Marielle heard the lock being thrown and clutched his leg.

  “Nay, you mustn’t,” she begged.

  He opened the door, casting a ray of light inside the confessional. “The time has come for you to longer worry about Marc de la Tresse.”

  Marielle heard Marc scrambling from the neighboring confessional as Ashby stepped out into the church. The door crashed open and Marc flew by, smashing into Ashby, carrying them both to the floor. Marielle watched in horror as Marc’s fingers wrapped tightly about Ashby’s throat.

  “You protect her even now,” Marc ground out, his fingers stark white as he lifted Ashby by the throat and slammed his head against the intricate tiles.

  The explosion in his head lit a fire within Ashby. Marc had caught him off-guard but instead of overpowering his enemy, Marc’s actions gave Ashby new life. His hands, locked around Marc’s wrists in an effort to force the Frenchman to relinquish his grasp, now tore his foe’s hands away from their target. The multitude of stars that danced before his eyes still blinded Ashby but he knocked the nobleman back and flung himself upon him.

  They rolled several times across the floor until they hit a column, halting their movement. Ashby yanked at Marc’s tunic and thrust him back against the pillar, satisfied to hear the groan that followed.

  Marielle froze in horror, still crouched on the confessional floor. She watched their death struggle, horrified at its intensity. She longed to intervene but did not want to cause Ashby to lose his focus.

  Marc threw a wild punch that connected with Ashby’s jaw and then soundly struck his fists against both of Ashby’s ears. The look of pain upon her beloved’s face caused tears to spring to her eyes. Marc pushed at Ashby and kicked him away. Ashby rolled and staggered to his feet, grim determination upon his face.

  Ashby rushed his opponent, butting his head into Marc’s stomach and ramming him into a pillar. Marielle heard a nasty crack and saw the agony etched on Marc’s face. He gasped for air as Ashby landed several solid punches in Marc’s kidneys, causing him to slide to the ground. He fell onto his side, wheezing. It looked as if all the fight had gone from him. The cut over his eye bled freshly again, pouring down the right side of his face. His one good eye had begun to swell.

  Ashby kept one eye on Marc as he moved toward Marielle. She scrambled from the confessional to meet him, flinging her arms about his waist. She clung to him, her body shaking. He stroked her hair, inhaling her scent, marveling at how perfectly she fit against him. It was as if she were made for him alone. He tilted her chin up and brushed a tender kiss upon her lips.

  “God’s teeth, man. I thought the rats would drive us to madness before Marielle moved and I could open the trap door.”

  Ashby lifted his head to see Garrett exiting the confessional, shaking the dust from him.

  His friend surveyed the scene. “Looks like I missed out on all the fun.”

  Marc staggered to his feet as Garrett spoke. He swayed once before falling back to his knees. Ashby released Marielle.

  “Go help the others,” he told her.

  He watched her move shakily toward the booth and turned to Garrett. “Ran into a bit of a problem.”

  “I could only make out a few muffled phrases. The trap door was too thick for me to hear all.” Garrett grinned. “I gather I am speaking to Father Ashby?”

  Ashby rolled his eyes. “It will make for a good tale over a glass of your best red.” He glanced again at Marc, who now clutched his stomach and rocked back and forth.

  “What shall we do with him?” he asked.

  “Indeed!”

  The men turned and caught sight of brilliant scarlet robes headed in their direction.

  Ashby’s gaze met those of a rotund man dressed from head to foot in red. The man cocked his head and studied him a moment before throwing out his arms in greeting to Garrett. Then Ashby realized who he must be. It was confirmed when Garrett greeted the cleric.

  “Good day, Cardinal Corot. We may need your help in settling a sticky situation.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The two old friends greet each other. Marielle and Ashby went to help those who remained in the catacombs. She held the trap door steady while he gave Madeleine a hand up. Her cheeks were flushed.

  She bobbed a quick curtsy to him. “My thanks, Father Ashby,” she whispered mischievously and winked at him before stepping from the confessional.

  Garrett called out to her and she crossed the church toward him and Cardinal Corot. Marielle watched as Garrett beamed with pride as Madeleine approached, then she turned back to their task. Within minutes, Ashby had lifted her family to safety. Two priests appeared and escorted her frail parents and siblings to warmer quarters where they would be fed and given clean clothes. They still looked dazed from their experience. She hoped rest and a good meal would set them all o
n the road to recovery.

  Ashby took her arm. “We can do no more for them at the moment. Come, let us speak with the cardinal.”

  Marielle nodded and they approached the cleric. As her eyes met his, she caught a glimpse of the priest and young man he had once been. She fell to her knees and took his hand, kissing his ring.

  “Rise up, child. You never showed me such respect before,” the man of God said, his crinkling blue eyes buried in folds of excess flesh. He lifted her by the elbow and smiled at her.

  “I doubt I was ever in this much trouble before, Father Julien. I mean, Your Grace.”

  The cardinal shook his head. “It’s good to once again hear that name. Especially from your lips.”

  He turned to those gathered around him. “You should have seen this imp at age seven. Smart as a whip and more curious than a cat investigating a bowl of unattended fresh cream.”

  Marielle felt her face flush as he smiled fondly at her. “She was greedy for knowledge and could ask questions until the stars rose and fell in the sky.”

  “She is still full of lively intelligence, Your Grace,” Ashby responded.

  Cardinal Corot eyed her speculatively. “And beauty, too. You are no longer a scrawny girl, Marielle. You have become an enchanting woman.”

  She smiled wistfully. “One who still has a propensity for getting into difficulties, Your Grace. I am sure you are here because you received word from Lord Montayne.”

  Corot frowned. “The missive reached me but two days ago, my child. I was away from court, having gone to Rome on the king’s business, else I would have come straightway to your aid. Lord Montayne wrote of this troublesome brother-in-law and what hideous things he has done to your family.”

  The cardinal pursed his lips. “The king is most displeased with this Marc de la Tresse. After I have made my royal report, you can be certain action will be taken.” He took Marielle’s hand in his. The gesture comforted her. How many times had Father Julien sought her out, lonely child that she was, and soothed her wounded pride or frayed nerves? The years might have passed but the friendship they once shared remained.

  “As for your family,” he added, “they may want to rest for a day or two after undergoing such a terrible ordeal. I have more than enough men with me who will escort them to their homes when they so desire.”

  Tears sprang to Marielle’s eyes and flowed down her cheeks. “Oh, thank you, Your Grace.” She took his hand and kissed it fervently.

  The old cardinal blushed. “Enough.” He turned to Garrett. “I still owe you a great deal, Lord Montayne. I would hope you and your wife and friend join Marielle and me for supper. I am eager to hear of England, as my half-brother, the Earl of Lambert, lives there. We’ve remained close all the years, despite the distance between us.”

  *

  Marc de la Tresse tired of their inane conversation. His body ached in more places than he could count. Fitz Waryn had broken his nose and several ribs. The swelling in his eye limited his vision. Even his head throbbed as if he’d drunk too many bottles of wine.

  And yet despite it all, anger seared through his veins, more powerful than any pain.

  What would they do to him? Turn him over to Brideau, who had lured him from the protective walls of Monteville with a false message and smashed his entourage to pieces? Or would they hand him directly to the king? Either way, his life would be over before he had begun to enjoy the spoils won by his brother’s death. His enemy would more than likely seize Monteville, probably with the king’s own knights aiding him. He’d been foolish. Gambled too much too soon. Made foes of the wrong men in the space of a few weeks. A lifetime of mistakes now caught up with him.

  But it wasn’t too late. Wouldn’t it give him the greatest pleasure to become the stuff of legend? He pictured himself burning the vines and the castle itself, then dying with Marielle in his arms. Peasants far and wide would spread the tale of their great love.

  Should they leap from the highest parapet, hand in hand—or take poison together? Should he stab her in the heart then himself, their hands entwined as their blood ran hot, melting into one?

  He fantasized of the romantic legends that would spring to the lips of Frenchmen everywhere. Yes, if he must die, so be it—but it would be on his own terms.

  Whatever he did, Marielle must be a part of it. He’d longed to possess her for too many years. Acted rashly so he could lay the world at her feet, only to have her flee his presence. When he died, he must take Marielle with him.

  He imagined the look on Ashby fitz Waryn’s face at losing his beloved. That alone proved worth the risk. He slipped the small dirk from his boot. It was the only weapon left to him.

  Silently, he moved to a crouching position as those gathered were speaking with each other. He was over to one side of their circle. If only he could move to that pillar, he could seize Marielle . . .

  *

  The tension in his body slowly leaked away. Ashby was grateful for the cardinal’s presence and found himself drawn to the jovial cleric. He was happy knowing this man had been of some comfort to Marielle during her wretched childhood at the convent. Ashby knew he couldn’t change her past but he would certainly change her future.

  He had decided that land be damned! He would make this woman his own. He’d been blind to the fact that love is the greatest gift of all. They needed only each other to face the world. Be it a single bedchamber Garrett granted them at Stanbury or a little cottage in the countryside or even under the stars themselves, he vowed he would always have her by his side. He had found a woman of courage and honor, one of beauty and intelligence. He refused to be a fool and let Marielle slip through his fingers again.

  A sudden blur caught his attention. In that moment, Ashby cursed his carelessness. Marc de la Tresse had recovered and clutched a blade. He lurched at Marielle, grabbing for her with his free hand, but only connected with her arm. Marielle shrieked and pushed him away with such force that Marc crashed into Cardinal Corot. Both men fell to the floor.

  Marc swung his hand with the knife around and lay it against the cleric’s throat before he scrambled to his knees. Ashby saw the wild look in his eyes as Marc scowled from one person to the next and back again. He feared Marc had toppled over into madness.

  “Don’t come near me,” the disgraced comte warned, “or I will plunge the dagger into his throat.”

  Corot lay unblinking, flat on his back, his face a mask. Ashby wondered if the cardinal really was that calm, certain he would go to God if death awaited him around the corner, or if fright caused him to go numb.

  “Release him, Marc.” All eyes turned to Marielle. “It’s me you want. Not Father Julien.”

  Ashby gripped her arm tightly to prevent her from taking another step.

  Marielle turned to him, tears swimming in her eyes. “I must go to him,” she said softly. “I’ll not have that madman place another death at my doorstep. Jean-Paul is burden enough to bear.”

  Her lips trembled as she tried to smile and failed. In that moment, Ashby saw his future, a bleak one without her, and knew he must act.

  “To your feet, you tub of lard,” Marc ordered the cardinal. “You may accompany Marielle and me from this place and marry us.”

  He dragged the cleric to a sitting position, the knife pricking his throat. Corot gave a small cry of astonishment as blood trickled from the wound. Marc yanked him to his feet and winced, pain evident on his face at lifting the heavy clergyman.

  Corot’s girth almost dwarfed the younger man. Ashby knew it was now or never. As Marielle took her first steps toward Marc, Ashby saw Marc’s gaze was focused on her. With a swiftness he’d never known he possessed, Ashby lunged at Marc, coming from the side that Corot blocked with his huge frame and the eye that was swollen shut, thus limiting Marc’s vision.

  He thrust a hand out and upward, knocking the blade from Marc’s grasp. The movement threw both the cardinal and the comte off-balance and they toppled to the floor. Ashby pitched forward
and rolled, landing next to the dirk. He scooped it up and tossed it to Garrett before landing a solid blow to Marc de la Tresse’s jaw. A few quick, punishing blows followed and Marc fell back to the floor again. He curled into a tight ball and began weeping as a babe.

  “Mercy,” he cried out, his sobs the only noise in the still church. “Have mercy.” Fat tears rolled down his cheeks.

  Ashby felt nothing, much less the pity Marc de la Tresse sought. This man murdered in cold blood, cheated others, and put Marielle and her family through hell. If they weren’t in a house of God, Ashby’s actions would have gone farther.

  Much farther.

  This time, he stood directly over Marc, not taking his eyes from the sniveling comte, as he called out, “Cardinal, are you all right?”

  In response, Corot came to stand beside him. He placed a trembling hand on Ashby’s shoulder.

  “You saved me from death.”

  Ashby smiled grimly. “It’s merely a small cut on your throat, Your Grace. I think you would have survived that.”

  Corot cleared his throat. “No, my son. If I would have left this church with that lunatic, I doubt I would have seen tomorrow’s sunrise.”

  His gaze connected with the cardinal’s and Ashby saw gratitude etched on the cleric’s chubby face. “It was my pleasure.” He bowed. “Ashby fitz Waryn. At your service, Your Grace.”

  “And this will be mine.” Garrett stepped up and placed a booted foot atop Marc’s heaving chest. “I will see to this blubbering coward.”

  Ashby nodded his thanks to Garrett and faced Corot. He saw the cardinal pull a gold ring encrusted with rubies from his finger. He pushed it into Ashby’s hand and closed it into a fist, his hands wrapped around his rescuer’s.

  “I must reward you, my son. Both you and Lord Montayne have come to my aid. What is it about you Englishmen?”

  Those gathered laughed heartily. Marielle moved beside Ashby, needing to be near him. He slid an arm around her waist as he opened his hand. The ring in his palm glistened. He frowned and reached his hand back to Corot.