Fugitive Countess

by Anne Herries

  The castle looked almost deserted, apart from a few house-carls in the courtyard. He summoned one to him and the man came hurriedly.

  ‘Forgive us, your honour,’ he said, cringing as if he expected a blow. ‘The steward is with the lord and everyone else is out searching for her…’

  ‘Searching for whom?’

  ‘The witch of Montcrief. She that murdered her gentle husband by foul witchcraft.’

  Anton frowned as he remembered the beautiful lady who had given him his prize and a chill ran down his spine. ‘Do you speak of the Comte’s wife? By what right do you call her a witch?’

  ‘You! To the kitchens, or I’ll have you flogged until the skin falls from your back!’

  A man had come striding into the courtyard. The Bastard of Rouen! Anton knew him instantly and was immediately suspicious. What had happened here? How came such a brute to be the master of Montcrief’s castle? The house-carl had run away as fast as his legs would take him, looking as if the Devil himself were after him. It might be best not to let the Bastard realise that he was speaking to the man who had bested him at the tourney. Anton knew that he looked different in his armour and could only hope he was not recognised.

  ‘Sir, I have come to bring the Comte de Montcrief greetings from Henry Tudor, King of England.’

  ‘Your messenger arrived an hour since,’ the Bastard replied, eyes narrowed, calculating. Anton had brought ten of his men into the bailey with him, but more were camped outside, waiting his return. ‘You are welcome to stay here with your men, my lord—but I fear your journey has been wasted unless you carry a message you may pass to me? I am the master here now.’

  ‘The message is in my head. It is merely that Henry wishes to congratulate the Comte on having a fine heir—and to assure him of friendship should he visit England.’

  ‘My father died some five days ago. He was killed by witchcraft and poison—and the culprit was his wife. She has stolen her husband’s son and fled, taking gold and jewels with her. Most of my men are out, searching the countryside for her and the servants who assisted her flight. They will suffer the same fate as their evil mistress when they are caught.’

  ‘Witchcraft is a wicked crime,’ Anton said, resisting the urge to wipe that look of satisfaction from the other’s face. ‘Has the witch been proved?’

  ‘She escaped before she could be put to the test. I was at first deceived in her, for she pretends to be modest and God-fearing. However, her flight is proof enough. She had heard the rumours that she was to be accused of her husband’s murder and fled in the night before she could be apprehended.’

  ‘I see that you have much to occupy you,’ Anton said. His instincts told him that this man was not to be trusted. He did not like him, and caution told him that it would be wiser not to take his hospitality. His men would prefer to rest under the stars rather than be murdered as they slept. ‘I am sorry for your trouble, and I shall move on rather than cause you more bother.’

  He remounted and signalled to his men to follow him from the castle. Anton was aware of a prickling sensation at the nape of his neck. Something was wrong here. He could not tell how much truth there was in the tale of the lady murdering her husband, but he could not believe that she was a witch. Many women were hanged or burned to death as witches, because they had failed the barbaric acts that put them to the test and proved their guilt. The thought of such vile cruelty left a bitter taste in his mouth. He shuddered as he pictured the woman he had seen at the tourney being tortured and then burned in the flames.

  He could do nothing to help her. Nor should he if she were truly the murderer of her husband. Yet he could not believe it of the woman he had seen at the tourney. Something was wrong here!

  His mission was at an end. Instead of staying here overnight he would turn north towards the home of Lord de Montfort. It would mean one night more upon the road, but his aunt Anne’s husband would welcome him and he would deliver a message to their son Sebastien. King Henry had charged him to invite his cousin to visit the English court.

  Anton frowned as he gave the order to move north. He would be glad to put a few leagues between him and the upstart who claimed that he was the new lord of Montcrief. There had been a look of slyness about the man that made him wonder just what was behind his invitation to stay the night. Anton had no doubt that he and his men would have been killed as they slept, perchance to be robbed for their armour and possessions. He was glad to leave, and could not help but think of the woman who had been forced to flee her home. He remembered how beautiful she had looked that day at the tourney. The wife of a powerful noble, she had had everything she could want—and now she was a fugitive in fear of her life.

  Marietta screamed as she saw the small party of men riding towards them fast. She knew the pennant well. These were the Bastard of Rouen’s men and they would catch her and take her back with them. She had brought her fate on herself by defying the Bastard, but her son was innocent.

  ‘Take Charles and run that way,’ she said to Rosalind. ‘I shall go this—perhaps if they come after me, you and Charles may get away…’

  ‘I cannot leave you, my lady.’

  ‘Go! I command it!’ Marietta cried. ‘I charge you to take care of my son. He must live even if I die…’

  She gave her woman a little push, but then she saw it was too late. A larger party of men were coming towards them from the opposite direction. They were caught between them and there was no escape. She screamed despairingly and began to run towards the woods. Perhaps if she could reach them she might escape for long enough to hide her child. Even if she died, Charles must live…

  The sound of yelling and screaming made her glance back over her shoulder. She was stunned as she saw that the larger group of men seemed to be attacking the Bastard’s soldiers. What was happening? Who were the strangers, and why were they fighting the rogues that would have taken her prisoner?

  Instead of fleeing into the woods to hide, as she had planned, she stood, her heart beating frantically as she watched the fight.

  After a short skirmish, the men she feared had turned tail and were running for their lives. Marietta stood still as one of the strangers rode up to her; her heart was pounding and she wondered if her last moment had come. She pulled her shawl over her head, trying to hide her face. She was frightened. Did these men know who she was—had they saved her because they wished to sell her to the Bastard for gold?

  ‘You are safe now, mistress,’ the knight said, and raised his visor, revealing his face. Marietta’s heart stopped as she knew him. For a moment relief flooded through her. It was Anton of Gifford—but would he remember her? Surely he must after that day at the tourney! Would he believe her innocent if she told him her story? She pulled her shawl tighter around her face, hoping that he would not recall that she had given him the silver arrow or the incident with the savage dog. ‘Come, I shall take you up with me.’

  ‘No…’ Marietta hung back. She hugged the child to her. She was nervous, because she did not know how he would react if he knew who she was and the crimes of which she stood accused. ‘Please, allow me to go on my way.’

  ‘If you do not come with us those villains may return. Where are you travelling to, mistress?’ her rescuer asked. His eyes were narrowed and intent as he gazed down at her. ‘We go north, to the estate of my uncle Lord de Montfort. Then we will travel back to England.’

  ‘I was on my way to England myself,’ Marietta told him. ‘I need to reach the coast by nightfall.’

  ‘Then we shall take you some part of your way. I am Anton of Gifford, mistress. I shall take you to safety, and then we shall discuss what you should do in the future…’

  Had he recognised her? Did he know that she had been forced to flee her home? Marietta trembled inwardly. So far he had been kind, but what would he do if he knew that she had been accused of witchcraft and murder? It would be best if they parted before he discovered the truth.

  ‘You saved our lives, but if
you set us down when we have put some distance between us and those rogues we shall do well enough.’

  ‘Will you not tell me your name, mistress?’

  Marietta hesitated. ‘It is Marie—Marie de Villiers.’

  She saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Had he remembered her? Would he denounce her as a wicked murderess?

  ‘Come then, Mistress Villiers,’ he said, and offered his hand. ‘We waste time and night falls…’

  Marietta stood still as he dismounted and lifted her to the saddle, remounting so swiftly that she almost fell as the great horse moved forward. She had slipped the babe inside the shawl she had wrapped around her head and body, leaving her hands free so that she could hold on to the knight’s cloak. The knights were regrouping after routing the Bastard’s rogues. She saw that one of them, a man with a fearful scar on his face, had taken Rosalind up behind him, and Sandro was riding the pony they had brought with them, their few possessions strapped to his back. It seemed that she had no choice but to go with them.

  Sitting behind Anton of Gifford, Marietta was aware of mixed emotions. How long had she dreamed of meeting this man again? Yet now it had happened she had the shadow of murder hanging over her.

  Anton called a halt as the gates and wall that bounded the estate of Lord Simon de Montfort came into view. He dismounted and signalled to his men to do the same. He had brought the man and two women this far, and he believed they must now be safe enough to continue their journey. He assisted the woman he had taken pillion to the ground and gazed down at her. He had known her the moment he looked into her face. She was the woman who had given him the silver arrow at the tourney—the wife of the late Comte de Montcrief, the woman whose perfume had haunted his senses since he held her in his arms. So why had she given him a false name? Did she think that he would betray her to the Bastard of Rouen? Did she even remember giving him the silver arrow?

  The questions chased each other through his mind as he considered what he should do now. She had asked to be allowed to go on alone, but if he abandoned her she and her servants would be recaptured within days.

  Deciding not to press her for the truth, or reveal that he knew she had lied about her identity, he told her, ‘My aunt will give us shelter for the night. You are safe now, lady.’

  ‘I thank you for your kindness, but we travel to the coast for we mean to take ship for England. I should not wish to trouble your aunt…’

  ‘It will be no trouble. You are weary and can go no further this night, Mistress Villiers. Rest here and I shall escort you to the coast in the morning. You will be safer with us.’

  ‘No, no, sir. We should go on…’ Marietta hung her head, seeming afraid. Did she think that he would denounce her as a witch? ‘I think we should not put you to more trouble, sir. Just allow us to leave and we shall delay you no more.’

  Anton looked down at her. She was pale, and she looked exhausted. He felt something stir inside him. This woman could not be guilty of murder! As for the charge of witchcraft—he had no patience with such nonsense.

  ‘You will stay here this night,’ he said. ‘My aunt will give you a room where you may rest and tomorrow we shall go on board my ship.’

  ‘No. I must go…’ Marietta tried to pull away from him, but gave a little cry and stumbled. Anton saw that she was faint from hunger or exhaustion, and caught her in his arms before she fell.

  When Marietta came to herself once more she was in a small chamber that might belong to a servant of some importance. It was clean, and the sweet-smelling sheets on the bed were fresh, though of a coarse cloth that felt hard to someone who had been used to the finest of linen and silk. She moaned slightly and someone came to her, bending over to apply a cool cloth to her head.

  ‘You fainted, mistress,’ Rosalind told her. ‘It has all been too much for you—and you have not eaten properly for two days. Lady de Montfort has sent you soup and bread. Will you not eat a little?’

  Marietta sat up. Her head was aching, but she could smell the beef broth and it was good. She was suddenly aware of a ravenous hunger.

  ‘My son, Charles—where is he?’

  ‘Lady de Montfort took him. She says that she will feed and care for him until you are better. She likes children, and she has but one son who is full grown.’

  ‘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 close
d 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!