Marietta was puzzled, but answered truthfully. ‘Yes, he never took it from his finger. He said a good friend gave it to him some years before. Why do you ask?’
‘Do you have the ring?’
‘No.’ Marietta frowned. ‘I took some gold and my jewels when I fled, but his ring … it was not on his finger or in his chamber. Someone else must have taken it before I saw him.’
‘You are telling me the truth?’ Anton’s gaze narrowed.
‘I swear it on my life—and my son’s.’
‘Then I know you do not lie. Very well, lady. You must rise early, for I wish to set out soon after first light. My uncle will send some of his men with us as an extra guard, though I think we shall not be attacked again for we routed the rogues who planned to murder us in the night.’
‘I am sorry for what happened to your man, sir.’
‘So am I,’ Anton said. ‘He died for your sake, lady. If I ever discover that you have deceived me—I shall kill you with my bare hands.’
Marietta looked into his hard eyes, gave a sob and fled up the stairs to her own chamber. How could he say such things to her? How could he think it? He was cruel, and she should hate him, but he was breaking her heart!
She locked the door behind her, flinging herself on the bed to weep.
Would she never know happiness again? Her husband had been so much older, but at least he had loved and trusted her. There were times when Anton of Gifford looked at her as if he hated her.
Marietta could not rest. Her mind was in torment. She wished that Claire had given her some task—something she could do that would keep her mind from the morning. She had felt safe here, but now she was to be taken to London, as Anton of Gifford’s prisoner. Her dreams had been shattered. The hero she had loved from afar was merely the product of a young girl’s imagination. She knew nothing of the true man, except that he was determined to do his duty. He would take her to London, where she would face the King and be judged, though there was no proof of her guilt or otherwise.
How could she prove her innocence? She had held herself proudly, telling Anton that she cared only for her child’s safety—and that was true. Yet she did not wish to die as a witch. It would be a cruel death and she would face it alone, for she had no one who truly loved her.
It was so unfair! Why should the jealousy of an evil man be believed? She knew that many would take the Bastard of Rouen’s word above hers. It was her medicine that had killed her husband—everyone believed it.
Marietta washed her face in cold water from the pewter ewer on her night stand. She had not changed for the evening, and she did not think she could face the others at dinner. Anton would have told them that he had been sent to fetch her—perhaps even Claire would think her guilty now.
She crept downstairs. She could hear voices and laughter in the hall. Turning away, she slipped out of the house by a little door at the rear. The light was fading from the sky but she was too restless to stay indoors. She hardly knew what she wanted. Crying would not help her. She could take Charles and run away, but how far would she get? Anton would find her wherever she went. He would come after her, force her to go to London with him—and then he would be certain of her guilt.
She had his promise that her son would be cared for. Perhaps that was enough. The thoughts churned endlessly in her mind. Perhaps the King might believe her … or be lenient.
Marietta knew that she must stay and face her punishment, whatever that might be. At least her child would be safe, because despite his stern looks and the way he made her want to weep she trusted Anton of Gifford. He might be cold and harsh to her, but he would protect an innocent child. He might even try to regain a part of what had been stolen from Charles, for even if she were condemned as a witch her son was innocent.
Realising that she had wandered farther than usual from the house, Marietta turned back towards it. She shivered because the air had turned cold. It was time to return and prepare for the journey. Farewells must be made, thanks given for all the kindness she had received in this house. Perhaps if God were merciful she might be allowed to return. It was all she could hope for.
She was walking towards the house when she heard the slight noise behind her. Pausing, she looked back just as the shadow loomed up at her. Something struck a blow to the side of her head and she fell, dropping her kerchief on a rose bush at the side of the path.
Blackness had descended. Marietta felt nothing as she was lifted over a man’s shoulder, carried some distance and then thrown carelessly into a cart. She did not hear the coarse laughter and the cruel remarks made as she was driven away into the night.
‘Have you seen her, Annabel?’ Claire asked her daughter. ‘It is not like Marietta to stay in her chamber all day. When I enquired, her maid told me that she dismissed her earlier. She thought she was in her chamber, but when we looked she was not there.’
‘I believe I saw her go into the gardens an hour or so ago,’ Annabel said. ‘I would have called to her, but she seemed distressed and I thought—’ She broke off. ‘She must be frightened. It is a terrifying thing to be summoned by the King.’
‘Yes, it is—but she is innocent. How could anyone think her guilty of murder? To look into her eyes is to know that she is innocent.’
Claire glanced up as her husband and Anton came into the hall. They had been searching the house and grounds, but from their looks it was obvious that Marietta had not been found.
‘Annabel thinks she may have gone for a walk in the garden.’
‘Until this hour?’ Anton’s brows rose. ‘Has she taken anything with her?’
‘You think she has run away?’ Claire was startled. ‘Surely she would not go alone? Her child is here; also her maid. I know she ran away from her home in France, but her life was at risk. Besides, she must know that we care for her. You promised to plead her case and surely the King will listen? No, do not look so sceptical! I am convinced the King would see that she is innocent.’
‘I shall search for her outside the grounds,’ Anton said, and frowned. ‘She may have strayed into the woods, but she cannot have got far on foot …’
‘I’ll have my people join in the search. If those rogues managed to follow you here she might be in danger.’ Harry Melford, newly made Earl of Rundle, looked at his wife with compassion. ‘Try not to worry, my love. I know you are fond of her, and I shall send a letter to His Majesty pleading for your cousin.’
Anton stared at him, his gaze narrowed, thoughtful. ‘If she has not run away someone may have snatched her. She may even now be dead.’ His voice grated harshly. ‘God forgive me. I was harsh to her and I shall blame myself if she is harmed.’ His skin looked grey as the colour washed from it.
‘No! Do not say it,’ Claire said. ‘Why should anyone want her dead? She is surely less important than her son to her enemies. While he lives that evil man can never be certain that Charles will not one day take back all that is his.’
‘Yes, that is true,’ Harry said, looking at his wife with approval. ‘If they have snatched her, the Bastard needs her for some purpose.’
Anton was already striding from the hall. If Marietta were dead or taken it was his fault. He had been harsh to her—unnecessarily so. It was not her fault that his wife had betrayed him. The more he thought about his behaviour towards Marietta, the more he blamed himself. He had tried to keep a distance from her because he was afraid of giving his heart, afraid that he might lose her. It had been cruel and heartless of him to treat her so coolly when she needed his help. She must be terrified of what might happen to her! He must find her—or punish the man who had taken her! Anton might never forgive himself for the part he had played in his wife’s death, but he did not think he could bear the added burden if Marietta died because he had not offered the comfort she needed.
Because of his harshness she had gone into the garden to seek solitude and she had disappeared. He was reminded of his jealous rage, which had caused Isabella’s death. What a fool he
was! Because he feared to be hurt he had been cold to Marietta, when all his instincts had been to take her in his arms and kiss her.
Marietta’s head hurt so terribly. She did not know for how long she had lost consciousness, but it must have been some hours. Her body felt bruised, as if she had been beaten. Her captors had treated her roughly and she had lain too long in a cramped position. She tried to move but discovered that her legs had been tied, as had her hands. She opened her eyes, but discovered that it was too dark to see anything.
Where was she? She strained to hear, and gradually became aware of movement and the lap of waves against the side of the ship. Her abductors were taking her back to France! Fear coursed through her, because she knew that she would be given no mercy. The Bastard hated her. He would see her dead—and her son! No, Charles was safe inside the Earl of Rundle’s house, where she ought to have stayed.
Anton would think she had run away. Would he honour his promise to care for her son, or would he decide that she had broken her word and set him free? What would happen to her poor child? Claire would care for him, but he would never regain his inheritance for her kinswoman had no influence at court. Anton had given his word that he would do what he could, but could she trust a man she hardly knew? She had thought him honourable and generous, but he was no longer the sweet youth she had dreamed of. What had changed him to the cold, stern man he had become? Was it because he suspected she was guilty of murder and witchcraft, despite his declaration that he believed her innocent?
Tears stung her eyes as she lay in the darkness. How could she have been so foolish as to walk alone when darkness was falling? She should have known that the Bastard might try to get her back. Her safe arrival in England had lulled her into a false sense of security these past weeks and she had no one but herself to blame.
She could hope for nothing. Claire and her family had been kind, but why should they bother to search for a woman who was to be tried for murder and witchcraft? Why should anyone bother to save her when King Henry’s justice might condemn her to death? The only person that might have saved her had looked at her so coldly when they last met.
Bitter tears ran into her mouth as she wept. She was alone, and the future held only terror and pain.
‘I found this on a bush,’ Anton said, holding a kerchief for Claire to see. ‘Is it hers?’
‘Let me see … Yes, I gave Marietta this myself.’ Claire looked fearful. ‘It proves she was in the garden. I do not think she has run away.’
‘She would not go without the child,’ Anton agreed. ‘There were signs of a struggle, footprints in the earth near where we found the kerchief. I think she has been abducted.’
Claire gave a cry of distress. ‘Those wicked devils! What will they do to her?’
‘If they meant to kill her we should have found her body,’ Anton said, his mouth pulled into a grim line. ‘She has been kidnapped and taken to her husband’s bastard, which means that she will be kept alive at least until they reach the Castle of Montcrief. I shall leave at once, and we must pray that I am in time to save her.’
‘You will go after her?’ Claire looked at him in relief. ‘You will try to save her?’
Anton inclined his head. ‘She went walking alone because I distressed her. My honour compels me to find her and bring her back if possible.’
He turned and left the hall. Outside, he summoned his men.
‘They have taken the lady Marietta, Comtesse Montcrief. She was accused of witchcraft and murder, but I believe her innocent and I intend to bring her back to England if I find her alive. Some of you may not wish to follow me on this mission. If you wish, you may wait here for my return or leave my service. The choice is yours. I am leaving for France now.’
Anton swung himself into the saddle. He did not glance back as he rode off. If they all chose to leave him, he would go alone. Honour demanded it. He could not bear the death of another young woman on his soul!
‘We are with you,’ Miguel said, his horse coming alongside. ‘For pity’s sake go a little slower, for the sake of those who cannot keep pace with you. The lady is in God’s hands. If she be the innocent you think her, He will protect her.’
Anton’s mouth was tight, his eyes bleak as he glanced at his friend. ‘I thank you for your company, Miguel. Pray God you are right. For I cannot bear the stain of another sweet lady’s death on my soul …’
Marietta opened her eyes as the cabin door swung forward and two men entered. They stood over her, grinning evilly as they saw that she was awake. She knew them as men who had once served her husband, but had transferred their allegiance to the Bastard.
‘Untie me,’ she demanded. ‘How dare you do this to me—your master’s wife? You will be punished for this!’
‘We serve the Bastard of Rouen, not you, lady,’ one of them growled. ‘He commanded that you be returned to him.’
‘He has no right to command you. My son is the rightful heir—and I am the chatelaine of Montcrief until he comes of age. When the King hears of this, you will all be punished.’
‘Shut your mouth, woman. You are a witch and a murderer and will die in the flames.’
‘Be quiet, Pierre,’ the second man said. ‘She is not yet proven. Show some respect.’ His dark eyes went over her. ‘Forgive us, lady. We but do our duty. I shall untie the bonds if you give me your word that you will not run away. If we do not take you back, the Bastard will kill our children and us.’
Marietta closed her eyes for a moment, then inclined her head. ‘I thank you for your courtesy, Boris. You have my word.’
‘Do not trust her,’ Pierre warned, but Boris bent and sliced through the ropes with his knife. ‘Fool! If she escapes you shall bear the blame.’
‘Thank you.’ Marietta rubbed her wrists. They felt sore and numbed. When she tried to stand she almost fell. Boris steadied her, then lifted her in his arms. ‘Forgive me, the ropes have taken the feeling from my legs.’
‘You will ride with me,’ he told her gruffly. ‘Remember that my son’s life is forfeit if you run from us.’
‘I shall not forget. It was for my son’s life that I ran. I do not care what becomes of me …’
Marietta closed her eyes as she was taken on deck and then on shore. She was numbly aware of the horses, and being lifted to a saddle. Putting her arms around Boris’s waist, she entwined her fingers in his leather belt so that she would not fall. Her head ached, but the fresh air was rapidly clearing the feeling of faintness, though her sense of despair grew stronger with each league they covered.
She dreaded the moment when she came face to face with the Bastard once more. He would make sure that she suffered for defying him. She imagined that he would enjoy inflicting pain on her.
She must bear it as best she could, for she knew that she could expect no help. She could only pray that death came quickly. If her son was safe she could leave this life without regret. She had nothing more to live for.
Anton stared out into the darkness. It was one of the longest nights of his life, almost as terrible as the night he had sat by his wife’s dead body and wept for her. Then he had been helpless, for death was final, but now he burned with the fires of impatience, his sword-hand itching for work. Marietta’s abduction was his fault. He should have watched over her more closely. His instincts should have warned him that she was in danger. Why had he not placed guards in the grounds? Why had he been so harsh to her that she had sought solace by walking alone in the gardens?
The truth hit him like a sword-thrust in his stomach, sending a shaft of pain curling through him. His anger had been because he was afraid that she might be condemned as a murderess—and he cared for her! He had wanted her on the ship, but he had fought his feelings of desire. Romantic love was a trap, a source of bitter pain. To let himself be caught by it a second time would be stupid. Isabella had sworn her child was his but he could never have been sure, and the maggot of jealousy had eaten deep into his soul.
Anton did not want
to care for another woman. He did not want to feel the agony of loss again—but he was already feeling it. Marietta was in grave danger of losing her life.
If she died at the hands of that evil Bastard, Anton would not be able to bear the guilt.
Marietta allowed Boris to help her down from the back of his horse. She glanced up and thought she saw sympathy in his eyes, but it was quickly hidden. Even if he felt sorry for her plight, his son’s life meant more to him. She could not blame him, for in his place she would have felt the same. The Bastard of Rouen was ruthless. He ruled by fear and example, and would not hesitate to kill or maim any of his servants if they displeased him.
Fear was making her tremble inside, but she managed to hide it as she turned and saw him. The Bastard was a handsome man in a coarse, harsh way. Tall and strong, he had eyes the hue of blue ice, his hair worn long, hanging in greasy strands. His clothes looked as if they needed washing, and his beard was in need of trimming, stale food caught in the thick hair. Revulsion coursed through her as she saw the way he stared at her; the heat in his eyes burned her. He seemed to strip away her clothes so that she felt naked, vulnerable.
‘So, the witch returns.’ He grinned, vastly pleased with himself. ‘Where is the brat?’
‘We snatched her as she walked alone,’ Boris said. ‘The child was nowhere to be seen.’
‘Fool! I need them both.’ The Bastard struck him across the face, making him stumble. ‘I do not suffer fools, nor failure.’
‘We brought you the woman.’ Pierre said, and fell to his knees as the Bastard swung round, glaring at him. ‘Forgive me.’
‘Take these blundering idiots away and whip them,’ the Bastard ordered. ‘Think yourselves lucky that I don’t have you and your families killed.’
‘You will never get my son,’ Marietta cried, pride making her forget her fear. ‘He is cared for and protected and …’ Her voice trailed away as the Bastard towered over her. He raised his hand, striking her across the face. She stumbled but did not fall. ‘Yes—hit me, kill me—as you killed my husband. I know the truth. You were his murderer, not I. You are a coward and—’ Her words failed as he struck her once more and sent her to her knees.
A Wayward Woman Page 32