‘Has she asked questions?’
Rosalind brought the soup and bread on a board, placing it over Marietta’s knees. ‘I think the lord told her something. She has been nothing but kind, my lady.’
‘You must not call me that,’ Marietta warned. ‘Marie or Mistress Villiers will do.’
‘I do not like to address you so,’ Rosalind objected. ‘But if you wish it I shall try.’ She hesitated, then, ‘The lord seems fair-minded—could you not tell him your story?’
‘No! We do not know him,’ Marietta said. ‘How can I trust a stranger? He might believe that I am a witch and that I murdered my husband.’
‘Surely he would listen if you told him the truth?’
‘I dare not risk it. We must leave here tonight and make for the coast ourselves.’
‘Is that wise, mistress? Even if we reach the coast safely, we may not be able to find a ship to take us to England. If word hath reached the coast they may be looking for us …’
Marietta sipped the soup and found it good. She ate a mouthful of bread and then some more soup, looking at her serving woman thoughtfully. Perhaps Rosalind was right. Perhaps it would be better if they stayed with the men who had rescued them until they could find safe passage to England.
Anton of Gifford was brave and honourable. He had saved her twice before. Surely he would do nothing to harm her? Yet if he thought her a murderess he might feel it his duty to give her up. She had no choice but to accept his help, but she would not reveal herself to him just yet.
‘You speak wisely. I thought to flee, but that would merely arouse suspicion. We shall accept the lord’s escort until we are safely able to get to England.’ She crossed herself. ‘I pray that neither he nor his men guess who I am.’
Anton opened the door of the guest chamber with caution. He did not wish to wake either the woman who called herself Marie de Villiers or the maid who slept by her side, yet he had been unable to rest without seeing for himself that she was well and safe.
He approached the bed softly, his bare feet making no noise on the stone flags. Gazing down at her face as she slept, he felt his heart contract with an odd pain. How beautiful she was! She looked innocent as she slept, murmuring something that was indistinguishable, one hand beneath her cheek. How could a woman like this be guilty of murder?
He felt a wave of anger sweep through him as he thought of how cruelly she had been treated by the Bastard of Rouen. The man was a rogue, and Anton suspected that he had begun this tale to rid himself of his father’s wife and gain all Montcrief’s wealth for himself.
If that were true the woman had been cheated of her rights. Yet how could he be certain that his instincts were true? He had believed Isabella as innocent as she was lovely, but she had turned from him to another. Was it wise to trust any woman?
Even if she were innocent, it would be better to deliver her safely to her chosen destination and forget her. Isabella had taught Anton a hard lesson. He had thought he loved her, but her coldness, her petulance and her betrayal had made him realise their marriage was a mistake. He still felt the guilt of her death heavy on his conscience, for even if she had taken another man as her lover she had not deserved to die. He hoped that he would have been man enough to release her and let her find happiness if she had confessed the truth to him. Yes, he had raged at her, but in the end he believed that he would have done what was right.
When the time was right he would marry again, but he would take great care in his choice of a wife. A woman such as the Widow Montcrief was beautiful, but if he were foolish enough to let himself be caught she would wind her fingers about his heart and eventually destroy him.
Turning away, Anton closed the door softly behind him. He did not know why this woman had touched something inside him, but he would not allow her to take root in his heart.
Chapter Three
‘Who are they?’ Anne de Montfort asked of her sister’s son later that night. ‘I think that the mother of this delightful child is a lady, despite her clothes. I saw her face as we put her to bed and her features are too delicate to be those of a peasant.’
‘She says that her name is Marie de Villiers.’ Anton thought carefully. He considered that it would be best to tell no one that he knew the lady to be the widow of Comte de Montcrief. ‘In truth I do not know who she is, Aunt. I rescued her from rogues upon the road and that is all I can tell you. I dare say she would have gone on her way had she not been overcome by faintness. She says that she wishes to travel to England—and since I have a ship waiting.’
‘You intend to take her there.’ Anne smiled. ‘I think my sister is blessed in her son, Anton. I love Sebastien dearly, but he tends to be wild and reckless. Mayhap he has been spoiled because he was our only child. You have such fine manners and it is a pleasure to have your company.’
Anton murmured something about her son being young as yet. He was vaguely troubled in his mind concerning the lady he had brought to her house. If the lady were indeed the Comte’s widow, as he firmly believed, she might be guilty of her husband’s murder, though he had instantly acquitted her of witchcraft. He knew that some of his men would certainly look at her askance if they suspected anything of the kind. Fortunately, he believed that none of them had been present at the tourney where he had taken the silver arrow from her hand and then rescued her from a savage brute of a dog.
He frowned, because the idea that she might actually have killed her husband left a bad taste in his mouth. He knew that women could be faithless. Had he not been given ample proof? Isabella had been lovely and seemed innocent but she had destroyed his faith in women. This French woman was beautiful, but was she also a wicked murderess? No, surely not!
He decided that he would deliver her safely to England, but after that he would leave her to make her own way.
‘It has been good to see you,’ Anne told him, and kissed his cheek. ‘One day you must bring your daughter to visit me.’
‘Yes, I shall—one day.’
Anne wondered at the odd look in his eyes. She supposed that the sad, sometimes desperate look she had seen there at times must come from the grief he felt at the loss of his wife—but what else had made Anton so serious?
Marietta glanced back at the château as they rode away. Lady Anne had spoken kindly to Rosalind before they left, giving her food for the journey. Rosalind had been taken up behind the knight with the scar on his face. She knew that his name was Miguel Sanchez, and he had told Rosalind that he was a friend of Anton of Gifford’s. As yet she had not spoken to him herself, but she had noticed him staring at her and something in his look had made her nervous. Did he know who she was? Would he betray her?
Marietta was riding just ahead of Anton of Gifford. Dressed in his black armour, with a visor over his face, he seemed a fearsome warrior, and his grip on her wrist when he had refused to let her go on her way alone had been strong. She had been well treated at the home of Lord and Lady de Montfort, and she was feeling better for the rest and good food, though she had seen nothing more of her rescuer until this morning.
She had been surprised when the horse had been brought out for her to ride, because it was a fine specimen and the kind of mount only a lady would ride. She feared that the man who had rescued her was aware that she was not who she pretended to be—but did he know her real name? Had he remembered her from the tourney at last?
‘Why am I to ride a horse like this?’ she had asked as he had offered to help her mount.
‘It is fitting that you should, lady,’ he said softly. ‘Come, there is nothing to fear. Believe me, I mean you no harm.’
‘I believe you, sir,’ she said, and took his hand, allowing him to help her up into the saddle. She gazed down at him, wishing that his visor were up so that she might see his face. ‘You are generous and I thank you for everything you have done for us.’
‘It was little enough.’ The knight’s eyes gleamed behind the visor that masked his face. ‘We shall soon be on board my ship
, and within a few hours you will be in England.’
‘Thank you …’
Marietta’s stomach tightened with nerves. This knight had such a strange effect on her. His touch made her tingle, and she was apprehensive of what he would say if he ever discovered that she had been accused of witchcraft, and yet instinctively she wanted to trust him. If only she dared tell him the truth and throw herself on his mercy!
Anton chose to ride just behind Marie de Villiers, as she called herself. He could watch her and stop her if she tried to ride off alone—or protect her if another attempt were made to snatch her. He had seen the puzzled look in her eyes earlier, and knew that she was wondering about him. Was she afraid that he would betray her to her enemy? Was she worried that he’d heard the rumours about the death of her husband?
Anton had dismissed the idea of witchcraft instantly. He was aware that many believed in the power of evil, and feared it, but he was inclined to think that evil lived in the minds of men who practised it. He would sooner believe the Bastard of Rouen capable of murder than this gentle lady.
Some would no doubt say that she had cast her spell over him. Even his friend Miguel might turn against her if he knew that she was accused of witchcraft. If he were to deliver her safely to her destination Anton would need to be careful. It would be better to plead ignorance than admit that he knew her. Once they were in England she should be safe from the man who wanted her dead.
Anton had no doubt that the Bastard of Rouen had seen his chance to take what rightfully belonged to the Comte’s legitimate son. It would not be the first time it had happened and would not be the last. The Comte’s widow might be able to prove her innocence and try to take back her husband’s estate once she reached England—but could she hold it? The Bastard of Rouen was not the only man who might try to take it by force. A woman alone was not safe in turbulent times, and the barons of France were fiercely independent and jealous of their privilege—hungry for power and wealth, they would see his widow as a prize to be taken.
The Comte had neglected his duty. He ought to have set men in place who would protect their mistress to the death—but perhaps he had. They might already be dead or imprisoned …
Anton frowned. It was not his place to enquire. He had a duty to return the King’s letter and tell him what had happened at the Castle of Montcrief. Once the lady was safe in England he should forget her. A wry smile touched his mouth, for it was easy to make the decision but not as easy to carry it through.
Marietta stood on board the ship and watched the shores of France slip away into the mist. She felt strange, as if she had said farewell to everything dear and familiar to her. It was doubtful that she would return to France—unless she could find someone who would intercede with the King for her?
‘You should go below, lady.’
Marietta turned as Anton of Gifford came up to her. ‘I wanted to watch until the land was gone, sir. I am not sure that I shall ever return to France.’
‘You do not know that, lady. Things may change in the future.’
‘They cannot change for me. I do not mind for myself, but I would have justice for my son.’
‘Indeed? In what way?’
‘It does not matter.’ Marietta turned away. She did not dare to trust him, for even in England a witch could be hunted and condemned to death. ‘You said that I should go below. I shall do as you ask, for I would not wish to be in the way.’
‘It was for your own sake that I advised it,’ Anton said. ‘The captain tells me that there may be a storm.’
‘I see …’ Marietta inclined her head. ‘Excuse me, I must make sure that Rosalind and my son are safe. I speak a little English, but my … friends have none.’
‘How is it that you understand the English language so well, mistress?’
‘My mother was an Englishwoman. I learned to speak the language at her knee. Excuse me, I must go below.’
She did not look back as she walked away and started to descend the ladder leading to the cabins on the next deck, but she was aware that he was watching her.
Anton had discarded his heavy armour as soon as the swell became too great. If the storm should become too fierce and the ship sink, neither he nor his men would stand a chance wearing their armour. Accordingly, they had all removed it, and were wearing only their short jerkins and tight-fitting hose, with shoes that could be kicked off in an instant.
Anton was an experienced sailor. During his time as an ambassador at the court of the Holy Roman Emperor he had often travelled between Spain, France and Italy. He had gone back on deck when the storm struck, to see if he could be of help, and also because he knew it was easier to ride the heavy swell on deck rather than lying on a bunk in his cabin.
He was watching a particularly large wave coming towards them when someone touched his arm, and he turned to look into the face of the groom Sandro.
‘How may I help you?’
‘Forgive me, my lord, but my lady is very ill. We have nothing to give her, and we wondered if you had a little wine to settle her stomach?’
‘I have something better than wine, though ‘tis best given in wine. I shall go to my cabin now and fetch it for her.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Sandro looked a bit green in the face, and suddenly dashed to the side of the ship, retching over the side. Anton smiled grimly. At least the man had the sense not to vomit into the wind!
He left the man staggering back to safety and went down to his cabin. It took him only a moment or so to find the powder given him by a Spanish doctor who was part Arab, and another to mix it into a cup of wine. He hung onto a wooden beam as the ship lurched, protecting the cup and managing to keep it upright.
The ship righted itself as Anton made his way to the cabin next door and knocked. Rosalind, who looked little better than Sandro had a few moments earlier, opened it.
‘I have brought this for your lady,’ Anton said. ‘You look ill yourself, mistress. Go up on deck for a moment and get some air. It may ease you.’
‘I cannot leave my.’ Rosalind gasped and rushed for the chamber pot, vomiting into it. ‘Forgive me, my lady …’
Anton went towards the bed. He saw the woman lying on the bed, her hair in disarray about her on the pillow. She had her eyes closed and she was moaning, clearly in great distress.
‘Come, lady, you must drink this,’ Anton said. He perched on the edge of her cot, slipping an arm beneath her shoulders to lift her. Marietta’s eyes flickered open. A little sigh escaped her, but she parted her lips, swallowing obediently. ‘Drink it all. In a little time you will feel much better. I never travel without this cure. I am seldom ill these days, though I have suffered in the past.’
‘Thank you …’ Marietta lay back, a tear slipping from the corner of her right eye. ‘You are so kind …’
Anton stroked back the damp hair on her forehead. How did she manage to look so lovely even while she was ill? Seeing her like this moved him, arousing strong emotions; he felt protective, wanting to ease her.
‘Do not try to talk. I shall go to prepare a cup for your serving woman and return in a moment or so …’
Marietta made no answer. Anton returned to his cabin and made up more of the mixture. He took the mixture back to Rosalind, who gulped it down gratefully.
‘Go on deck for a while,’ Anton advised. ‘The mixture will work in a short time and the air will refresh you.’
‘My lady …’ Rosalind glanced at the bed where Marietta lay.
‘Is safe with me. I give you my word of honour as a knight and nobleman of England.’
‘God bless you, sir!’ Rosalind said, and stumbled through the door, clearly still feeling groggy.
Anton went to stand at the foot of the bed and gazed down at the woman who lay there. Her red-gold hair was spread on the pillows and she looked beautiful, desirable, despite her distress. The colour was returning to her cheeks. He smiled, because he saw that her hands had unfurled and she was no longer moaning. The mixt
ure had begun to work its magic—though it was no magic but just a simple cure that the physician had learned from his brethren. The Arabs had many cures that would be thought witchcraft by some.
This lovely woman could not be a murderess! Anton swallowed hard as he gazed down at her face, feeling something move about his heart, as if a shadow that had lain there had shifted and eased. How could anyone accuse her of such evil? She had the look of an innocent angel. He thought her one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen—and he felt the first stirring of forgotten desires deep in his loins. He moved towards her, driven by the need to touch her. The strength of the feelings she aroused shocked him. Even when he had courted Isabella he had never experienced such an overwhelming desire to touch and hold as he felt now. Bending over the Frenchwoman, he smoothed her damp hair back from her forehead. Her eyelids flickered and she looked up at him.
‘Are you feeling better, Mistress Villiers?’
‘A little … yes. I am better than I was. Thank you … Anton of Gifford. Why are you so kind to me?’
‘I am at your service, lady. Do not fear me. I shall not betray you. Your secret is safe with me. I know you are not a witch, for I do not believe in such tales, and I cannot think you guilty of murder.’
‘You knew me from the first?’
‘You are the late Comte’s wife. Of course I remembered you from the day of the contest, when you gave me the silver arrow and that dog attacked you.’
‘You must believe that I didn’t murder my husband. I cared for him deeply, despite the difference in our age. I am innocent of the charge against me.’ Marietta said, and sighed. Her eyelids flickered. ‘I am so very tired.’
‘Sleep in peace, lady,’ Anton said softly. He knew that she was hardly aware of what she had told him, for her mind was confused by sickness. Bending his head, he placed a gentle kiss on her brow. ‘No one shall hear your secret from me. You are safe now.’
A Wayward Woman Page 29