by Anne Herries
‘I bring terrible news, my lady,’ Jeanne said. ‘I do not know how to tell you—your husband is dead. His steward found him lying on the floor of his chamber…’
‘My lord is dead?’ Marietta gave a cry of alarm and jumped out of bed. She was reaching for her robe as her other women entered the room. ‘How did he die? Was it a seizure?’ She crossed herself. ‘God save his soul.’ Tears stung her eyes, for her husband had been good to her despite the differences in their ages.
‘He was bleeding from the mouth,’ Louise said, and looked awkward. ‘Some are saying it must have been poison…’
‘Poison? Who would poison my lord?’ Marietta looked at Jeanne’s face and saw the guilt. ‘You do not think that the medicine I sent Montcrief last night would harm him?’
‘Of course it would not,’ Rosalind said staunchly. ‘You use only herbs that do good, my lady. Your cures saved him last winter, for without them he would have died.’
‘But some say it…’ Jeanne turned red as the other serving women looked at her. ‘I do not say it, my lady. You know that I am loyal to you—but Lord Montcrief’s steward questioned me. He saw me leaving the master’s chamber last night and asked me what I did there. I told him I took the master’s medicine to him. The look in his eyes frightened me, my lady: it was a crafty, malicious look. I do not think he likes you.’
‘You are right, he does not. Drogbar thinks that I whispered against him to my husband and caused him to lose face. It is true that I suggested we might be served faster at table if the kitchens were brought closer to the great hall, for the food was always cold when I first came here. Montcrief ordered it changed and laughed at Drogbar for not thinking of it sooner. I think the man has not forgiven me.’
‘He hates you,’ Jeanne said, and shivered. ‘He is a powerful man, my lady. He would not dare to speak against you while the master lived, but now…’
‘No one will dare speak against her. She is the mother of the new lord of this manor,’ Rosalind said. ‘Do not forget that she bore the master a fine son.’
‘There are those who wonder how it was possible, for the lord was too old to father a child; they hint at the black arts—’ Jeanne broke off as all eyes turned on her. ‘Forgive me, lady—but it is whispered of you, here at the castle and in the village.’
Marietta’s gaze narrowed. ‘I have never heard these tales. I have always tried to help people. Why should they say wrong of me?’
‘They whisper you are a witch…’ Jeanne crossed herself. ‘Forgive me! I know that you help people, but there are some who whisper that you could not have saved the master’s life had you not bartered with the Devil himself.’
‘Be quiet, you foolish woman!’ Rosalind said, and her eyes flashed with anger. She had come to Montcrief with Marietta, and known her since they were both children. ‘My lady is not a witch. Those who speak so foully abuse her good nature. She has shown you nothing but kindness, Jeanne—nor you Louise.’
‘I would not spread such tales,’ Louise said indignantly. ‘I know my lady is a sweet angel.’
Jeanne looked at Rosalind, and then at her mistress. She fell to her knees before Marietta. ‘Forgive me, my lady. I do not believe the tales, but I thought you should know what is being whispered.’
Marietta’s face was pale. Inside, she was grieving for her husband, and all this talk of witchcraft was too foolish to be borne.
‘Enough of this nonsense!’ she said. ‘I must go to my husband at once.’
‘My lady…is that wise?’ Jeanne asked.
Marietta ignored her. She swept out of the chamber and ran down the stairs of her tower. Going through a narrow passageway, she entered the Great Hall and ran across it to the private chambers that belonged to Comte de Montcrief.
As she tried to enter the steward blocked her path, his eyes staring at her with hatred, dark and malicious. ‘None may enter here.’
‘Stand aside, sirrah,’ Marietta commanded. ‘How dare you deny me entrance to my husband’s chamber?’
‘It was the new lord’s orders that none should enter.’
‘My son is the new lord Montcrief—and I am custodian of his manor until he reaches maturity.’ Marietta’s eyes flashed at him. ‘Stand aside or I shall have you flogged for your impudence.’
‘Do as the lady says,’ a voice said from behind her, and Marietta whirled round to look into the face of the Bastard of Rouen. The sneer of triumph on his thick lips sent a chill through her. ‘I did not tell you to deny my father’s wife the right to pay her last respects. You may go in, lady.’
‘By what right do you assume command here? My husband gave me the custodial rights until my son is sixteen. I know his will is lodged at court and once it is read everyone will know that my claim is just.’
‘I would not dream of interfering with your ordering of the household and your son, lady.’ The Bastard inclined his head to her. He was a handsome man, in a coarse, rough way, his eyes a chilling blue. ‘However, I believe you will find that the men follow me. How can you hold this land for your son, lady? It needs a strong man—as you would soon discover if I rode away and deserted you.’ He moved closer, towering over her. She could smell an overpowering perfume that hid the smell of dried-on sweat. ‘Do not fear, lady. I intend to stay here and protect you and your sweet son, as my father would have wished.’
His mocking smile infuriated her. How dared he take command here? Marietta was tempted to throw the truth in the Bastard’s face. She knew that her husband had tried to prevent this very situation, but something had gone wrong. Montcrief had died suddenly and the Bastard had seized his chance. For the moment Marietta was powerless. Instinct told her that it would be foolish to antagonise this man.
‘I thank you for your kind thought for me and my son,’ she said proudly. ‘For the moment I shall accept your protection.’
‘You are gracious, my lady.’ His eyes gleamed with anger as he bowed his head to her.
Marietta went into her husband’s chamber. One of the men who had served the lord was washing his face, but he bowed his head respectfully and drew back. It was obvious that he intended to leave, but she held out a hand to stay him.
‘Tell me, please, how my lord looked before you washed him?’
‘There was blood on his mouth. It had run from the side—a mere trickle, my lady.’
‘And his expression? Were his eyes open or closed?’
‘Open, my lady. I closed them and put the silver coins there to protect him on his journey across the Styx. If he goes prepared he may pay the boatman.’
‘You believe in such things, Jolyn?’
‘Yes, my lady.’ He crossed himself and glanced over his shoulder. ‘I know there are many things that we cannot understand. Some speak of the Devil and evil, but these powers may be used for good. I know that my lord spoke often how much better he felt after you gave him medicine, my lady.’
‘Thank you,’ Marietta said. ‘You may leave me with my lord, but return soon to finish what you have begun.’
Jolyn bowed his head and left the room. Marietta bent over her husband and kissed his brow.
‘Forgive me that I was not here when you needed me, my lord,’ she said, and the tears wet her cheeks. ‘I have been fortunate and I shall miss you.’
She bent her head as the tears trickled down her cheeks. Montcrief had treated her kindly and he had protected her. Now she was a woman alone and at the mercy of others. The Bastard of Rouen had taken command here and for the moment there was nothing she could do—except protect her child and wait. If she could get word to the French court perhaps the King would help her, but would she still be alive or would she be the next to die—and her son with her?
‘We are pleased to see you at court.’ King Henry VIII of England stood up to offer his hand to Anton. He clasped him by the shoulder. ‘We were sad to learn of your loss, sir—but welcome you home. You have served us well.’
Anton bowed gracefully. Clad in black from head to toe,
with only a fringe of silver to his sash, he was a distinguished man who turned heads as he walked through the court.
‘I am honoured to be received privately, Sire. You show me great favour. It is good to be home again.’
Henry studied him in silence for a moment, then, ‘You have brought the Lady Sarah to her husband, for which I am sure he expressed his thanks, but what is your intention now, sir?’
‘I believe I shall buy land and build my house. In time I may marry again, and I hope to have several sons. My father has but the one son, and if I fail the name dies with me…’
The King looked at him oddly, a glint of displeasure in his eyes. ‘It is the hope of all men to have sons, sir. The Queen hath given me a daughter but as yet I have no living son.’ He crossed the room to look down at the courtyard garden below. Through the opened window floated the sound of ladies laughing. The King raised his hand and called out. ‘Tell me, my lady Anne—is it warm today?’
Anton did not hear the lady’s reply, but when the King turned back to him the look of displeasure had gone from his face.
‘The Lady Anne Boleyn is walking with some ladies. I think we should go down and join them, sir. The getting of sons is an ambition I share with you. Choose your wife carefully, my friend. Divorce is no easy thing, especially if you be a king.’
‘I imagine it must be difficult, for many in the church would be against it…’ Anton knew he must tread carefully, because he had heard the stories and knew of the rumour that the King was seeking a divorce from Queen Katherine so that he might marry Anne Boleyn.
‘And you—what is your opinion?’
‘I think no man should stand above the King, Sire.’
‘You have learned your trade well,’ Henry said and smiled. ‘I see you are a true diplomat. Tell me, Anton of Gifford—will you do your King a further service?’
Anton bowed his head. It was as he had feared, but he knew he could not refuse. He had become wealthy, and he had learned much from his position at the court of the Holy Roman Emperor—and he had this king to thank.
‘Of course, Sire. You have only to ask.’
‘It will mean a short journey to France—but we shall talk of this another day…’ Henry smiled. ‘It is too pleasant to talk of politics. We must find a way of amusing the ladies—perhaps a game of tennis might please them. Tell me, do you play—are you a good sportsman? Shall we match ourselves for the ladies’ pleasure?’
‘I have some skill,’ Anton replied, smiling inwardly as he recalled the day he had won the coveted silver arrow—and the woman who had presented him with his prize. It was odd, but she had been much in his thoughts of late. He was angry with himself for letting her take root in his mind. Isabella’s loss was still a cause of raw grief and he needed to atone for her death! ‘Why not, Sire? I may be able to give Your Majesty a little sport…’
‘You are sent for, lady,’ Jeanne said, her cheeks hot as she avoided looking at her mistress. ‘The lord asks that you join him at table this evening.’
‘I am in mourning for my husband,’ Marietta said. ‘Please tell the Bastard of Rouen that I shall not come down this evening.’
‘It is forbidden to call him by that name. He is lord of Montcrief now,’ Jeanne said, and her eyes were wide with fear. ‘He told me that if you did not come he would send men to fetch you.’
‘He has threatened you?’
‘It was I who took the medicine to the Comte’s chamber the night he died. The new lord says that if I do not obey him he will charge me with the Comte’s murder.’
‘Does he dare to suggest that my husband was murdered?’ Marietta’s gaze narrowed as the woman hung her head. ‘And who is supposed to have put the poison into the medication—you or me?’
‘I swear I did nothing wrong!’
‘I have accused you of nothing. There was naught to harm my husband in the cure I sent him—but it may have been contaminated later.’
‘Will you come, lady? I fear the lord’s wrath if you do not. He says I shall be beaten if you do not obey him.’
‘Very well. For your sake I shall come.’ Marietta waved her away. ‘Leave me. I must prepare myself.’
She turned to Rosalind as the door closed behind the other woman. ‘Now I am bidden to table because he desires it. Where will it stop?’
‘I have seen his eyes on you, my lady. He wants everything that belonged to his father. He wants more than your obedience—and I fear he will take it whether you will it or no.’
‘You think he will force himself on me?’
‘I think he intends to marry you, my lady. Sandro heard him say as much to Drogbar. It is the only way he can claim your husband’s lands legally. At the moment he holds them by force—but if the King sends a force against him he must surrender.’
‘You sent my message to the King?’
‘It was done at once, my lady, and in secret. The messenger has not yet returned with a reply.’
‘The Bastard needs me and my son for the moment, which is why we are still alive,’ Marietta said. ‘But if my son should have an accident…should die in his sleep…’
‘The Bastard of Rouen would be accepted as the new Comte de Montcrief. He has his father’s blood; the master accepted him—would have left the manor to him had you not given him a child.’
‘Then if my son were dead he would have all that he craves.’ Marietta looked at her, her fear plainly writ on her face. ‘I must take the boy to safety, Rosalind.’
‘Where will you go, my lady?’
‘I do not know…’ There was no one in France to help her! For a moment she thought of the man who had once saved her life—the man to whom she had presented the silver arrow. If only he were here! Her instinct told her that he would protect any lady in need. Yet what right had she to ask for his help? Who could she turn to in her need?
Marietta paced the floor, her eye falling on a scarf that had been sent her as a Christmas gift the previous year. ‘I shall go to my father’s second cousin in England! Lady Claire Melford has asked me to visit so many times. She will help me, and perhaps her husband might intercede with the English King to help me regain my son’s birthright.’
‘If you run away they may say that you murdered the Comte by witchcraft and were afraid of the consequences.’
‘If I stay I may be forced to marry the man I believe truly committed that foul act…’
‘My lady…’ Rosalind stared at her in horror. ‘You think the Bastard murdered his father? If that is true…’
‘He will stop at nothing to gain what he wants.’ Marietta lifted her head, her face proud. ‘I must go down, for he will send an escort to force me if I do not—and I would not have Jeanne beaten, though she thinks me a witch.’
‘She cannot!’
‘I am certain she believes it. The Bastard has her in the palm of his hand. I do not trust her, Rosalind.’
‘You can trust Sandro and me. I swear that we will serve you. We would both give our lives for you and the baby, my lady.’
‘Thank you,’ Marietta said. ‘I believe we must leave as soon as we can arrange it. We shall not be able to take much, but I have some jewels and a little gold that my husband had hidden in his room.’
‘If we can get to England you will be safe.’
‘I pray that it will be so,’ Marietta said. ‘Now I must go, before I am taken to the hall by force…’
She walked from the chamber, her head high. Rosalind was not the only one who had seen the look in the Bastard’s eyes. His lust was hot and it was the only reason he had not already given her up as a witch. He wanted her. If he could have her as his wife his claim to the manor would be much stronger, and once he had tired of her he would dispose of her as he had her husband. Marietta knew that her life, and that of her son, hung in the balance. She must escape before morning or it might be too late.
Anton reined in as he approached the Castle of Montcrief. King Henry had sent him to the Comte with a message, which he b
elieved was of some importance. A return to France was not something he had wished for, but when he had learned what the King desired he had not felt able to refuse him. And at the castle of Montcrief he was bound to see the lady he had rescued from that brute of a dog.
He was aware of a flicker of something that might have been anticipation. Perhaps during this visit he might learn if the lady who had presented him with the silver arrow was truly the child he had rescued that day on the Field of the Cloth of Gold. She had been much in his mind of late, though he was not certain why. When the King had asked his favour it had seemed as if Destiny had spoken.
He sat his horse, looking at the castle for some minutes before giving the order to move on. His instincts were telling him that all was not as it should be. He could see that the drawbridge was down and the flag was flying at half-mast. Men were on the battlements, but he was not challenged as he and the ten men-at-arms he had brought with him clattered over the bridge into the inner bailey. Anton was clad in armour, his head covered with a helmet. His standard bearer was carrying his own pennant and another that bore the arms of the Tudors, showing that he was an envoy from the English court.
‘If anyone questions your mission, tell them merely that I have sent greetings to an old friend,’ the King had instructed before Anton left the English court. ‘You must deliver my letter into the hands of Comte de Montcrief himself. If for any reason he is not there, you will return it safely to me. The letter is writ in code, but if any other should decipher it, it might cause further trouble between England and her enemies.’
‘I shall do as Your Majesty asks.’ Anton had bowed his head. ‘I shall present my credentials and keep your letter close to my heart until I meet the gentleman himself.’
Now, looking about him, Anton wondered at the lack of order. Where were the men-at-arms training? Where was the steward who should have been told of his coming and been here to meet him? Where were the villagers bringing carts of food and supplies? Instead of order, there was an air of neglect about the place, as if the servants did not care to obey their master. It was not what he would have expected of the powerful lord he had seen at the tourney.