by Anne Herries
‘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 r
ide 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.
‘Take her to her chamber and lock her in,’ the Bastard roared. ‘If she escapes again I’ll hang every last man in the castle.’ His eyes glittered with fury. ‘I’ll speak to you later, witch. You will be sorry you dared to defy me.’
Someone grabbed hold of Marietta’s arms and dragged her away.
‘You are a bully, a murderer and a thief!’ Marietta screamed as they forced her into the castle. ‘One day I shall be avenged. My son will be the master here and he will not spare you…’
‘Be quiet, lady,’ the man who had her arm whispered. ‘He is a devil when roused. You would be wise to do as he wants, and then he may let you live.’
‘I would rather die than live as his whore,’ Marietta said.
On the voyage she had been close to despair, ready to die if she must, but now she was angry. Her feeling of apathy had gone. She would fight him to the last! The Bastard had no right to rule here. Surely God would strike him down!
‘If there is any justice he will die first…’
Locked in her chamber, Marietta paced the floor restlessly. Her faithful servants were in England. She had no hope of escape this time, unless she could find a way out of here…
She swung round as a key turned in the stout lock that guarded her door and a woman entered. She was a beautiful woman, with long pale hair and narrow catlike eyes. Her mouth was thin and hard as she looked at Marietta with dislike.
‘So you are the woman he would wed,’ she said. ‘What have you done to him, witch? Have you put your spell on him? He was mine, but he never spoke of marriage. He thinks of nothing else but you. You must have bewitched him.’
‘I swear to you that I have put no spell on him. He wants me only so that he can be sure of my husband’s lands and fortune.’
The woman’s gaze intensified. ‘If he marries you he will forget me—and he owes me much. I bear his child and I should be his wife.’
‘If I could change places with you I would,’ Marietta said. ‘I mean that I would wish for you to be his wife, not me. Believe me, if I could leave this place again I would not wait to be forced to wed him.’
‘You say that, but how can I believe you?’
‘I swear it on my life, lady…I do not know your name?’
‘It is Claudette. I was but fifteen when he took me from my parents and made me his whore. At first I hated him, but then—’ She broke off, eyes glittering. ‘If I could think of a way to set you free—would you go?’
‘Yes, I swear it.’ Marietta moved towards her eagerly. ‘Please help me. I have nothing to give you, but…’
‘I want nothing from you,’ Claudette said, stepping back. ‘Speak of this to my lord and you are dead.’
‘I swear I shall not…’ Marietta’s heart sank as the woman went out and locked the door again. ‘Please help me…’
She had thought the Bastard would kill her, but it seemed that he still planned to wed her—why?
Had he discovered that he needed her? She was sure that he had expected to rule here, whether she lived or died, but something must have happened to make him realise that he couldn’t do it without her.
Marietta clenched her hands, her nails cutting into her palms. She would prefer to die than live as the Bastard’s wife, but she might not be given the choice. He could force a priest to do his bidding—and he could force himself on her once she was his wife, for she was not strong enough to prevent him.
She had seen anger in his eyes as he looked at her, but also the gleam of lust. He wanted her. And he needed her. The will her husband had lodged at court must have upheld her husband’s wish that she should be in charge of his fortune until his son was of age. Rouen had taken the castle by force, but he could not touch the vast fortune in gold that her husband had lodged wit
h the King’s goldsmiths for safety. It seemed that the Comte de Montcrief had outwitted his bastard after all. Much of her son’s birthright was safe—but to keep it that way Marietta would have to pay a terrible price.
She fell to her knees beside the bed, head bent as she prayed for help.
If only Anton of Gifford had believed her innocent! She was certain that he would have come to her aid.
‘Please, please help me,’ she whispered, and it was no longer to God that she prayed.
Now she was remembering the face of the charming youth who had rescued her from certain death, and despite the way he had looked at her the last time they met she was comforted.
Chapter Five
Anton’s men were close enough behind the abductors to discover that a party of men and one woman had taken a ship for France the previous morning, but the tide was against them. It would not turn again until the evening.
‘Damn them! If he harms her I swear I shall kill him!’ Anton’s frustration at being held in port was tearing him apart. He stood looking out across the sea, his face like thunder. ‘I cannot bear the thought of her at his mercy.’
‘Courage, my friend,’ Miguel said, clapping a hand to his shoulder. ‘We shall bring her back if she lives. If she is dead, by his hand or theirs, they shall all pay for it.’
‘There are but ten of us, and he must have a hundred fighting men,’ Anton replied in clipped tones. ‘I shall not let you all die trying to storm the walls of such a fortress. We should give our lives for nothing.’
‘The man Sandro says he knows a secret way into the castle.’
‘Is he with us? I had not noticed.’ Anton glanced round at the men who had dismounted and were waiting for his orders.
‘You have been too preoccupied. The lady’s maid stayed behind, to care for the child, but Sandro followed you from the start. We would all of us give our lives to serve you,’ Miguel said.