Lion of Languedoc

by Margaret Pemberton

  When he had put several miles between themselves and the farmhouse he reined in, ordering his shaking victim to dismount.

  ‘What are you going to do with him?’ Marietta asked fearfully. ‘Kill him?’

  Léon looked down at the ashen face and terrified eyes. Gone was the ice-cold authority; only the hate remained.

  ‘I wouldn’t demean myself,’ he said easily, sending the Inquisitor stumbling backwards as the toe of his yellow boot connected with the black-robed shoulder. ‘I’ve killed many men, but only in battle. This one isn’t worthy to be called a man—let him crawl back to his hole as best he may.’

  Another thrust of his boot and the Inquisitor was sent sprawling. Léon grinned across at Marietta.

  ‘The sooner we put some distance between us and Evray the better. What say you?’ he asked as Saracen pawed the ground impatiently.

  ‘I say yes,’ Marietta said, pushing a tangle of copper-coloured curls away from her face. Where they were going she did not know—nor did she care. She slapped Saracen’s rump lightly and galloped after him down the dust-blown track.

  Chapter Two

  She only looked behind her once. In the distance Valais Hill rose hazily above the sea of trees and she reined in Saracen, staring fixedly at it through a mist of tears. Léon wheeled the Inquisitor’s horse around, cantering back to her. As he reached her she lifted her chin and squared her slender shoulders. The past was past. Only the future mattered.

  A strong, well-shaped hand reached across and gripped hers. She squeezed it tightly, and as their eyes met she saw they were not as dark as she had previously thought, but a warm, golden brown. There was no trace of the mocking smile or lazy amusement that so infuriated her. Instead he was looking at her with understanding, and she was grateful for it.

  She smiled. ‘It was one last goodbye. I shan’t cry again, I promise you.’

  ‘For my collar’s sake, I’m glad.’

  Marietta looked at the crumpled lace that had been so immaculate the previous evening and a faint tinge heightened her cheeks.

  ‘Did I do that? I don’t remember.’

  ‘It’s no matter,’ Léon said graciously, reflecting that if his valet at court had presented him with such a sad apology for adornment he would have had his hide.

  ‘I’ll make you another one.’

  ‘Not like this,’ Léon said as they resumed their ride. ‘This collar is of the best Chantilly lace.’

  ‘Anyone can make Chantilly,’ Marietta said disrespectfully. ‘My grandmother was a Venetian and Venetians make the best lace in the world.’

  What she said was true, and Léon was suitably impressed. The lace on his bucket-top boots had cost him a fortune. At least he need have no fears about her future. A lacemaker would always eat.

  ‘And do you make lace in the Venetian fashion?’

  She laughed. ‘Yes. And keep it secret.’

  ‘Then you’ll have no trouble in making a living.’

  ‘No.’ She felt suddenly deflated. Life had been lonely enough these past ten years, but there had always been her grandmother for company. Now there would be nobody. Despite the warmth of the sun she shivered.

  ‘Sometimes it helps to talk.’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ Marietta said as the road curved down through fertile orchards.

  Remembering the events of the past few hours Léon felt she was making something of an understatement. ‘ Why do the men of Evray say you’re a witch?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘Because they are fools.’

  He laughed. ‘I’ll not argue with you there. But if you’re not a witch, who and what are you?’

  ‘Marietta Riccardi, and I’ve told you what I am. I’m a lacemaker.’ Her pride in her art was unmistakable.

  ‘And what were you doing in Evray? Evray isn’t a lacemaking village.’

  ‘My grandmother was too weak to travel further.’

  He waited silently and after a little while she said: ‘As a child we lived in Venice, but my mother was French and these last ten years we lived in Paris.’

  She no longer saw the sun-filled road before them; only the beautiful city of canals and palaces that had been her childhood home. ‘When first she and then my father died my grandmother wanted to return to Venice. She fell sick in Evray and so we remained there, never accepted, always foreigners. Her skill at making medicines from herbs, instead of winning us friends, made us enemies. They said it was witchcraft that gave her the ability to cure fevers and chills. And that witches had to die.’ Her hands tightened on the reins. ‘It was all his fault. Before he came the people were grateful enough to her. It was he who put thoughts of witchcraft into their stupid minds.’

  ‘Him?’ Léon asked intrigued. ‘Who?’

  She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. ‘ I don’t know. He came late at night when I was asleep. He wanted a poison and my grandmother refused to give it to him. He said she would either give him the formula for it or burn. When I heard his threats and my grandmother’s protests I rushed into the room, but he was already outside and mounting his horse. All that I could see was that he was a man of quality. A nobleman with beringed hands.’

  Léon remembered the jewelled hand of the man who had ridden into the inn yard, demanding torches and more horses. He frowned. ‘Why should a man of substance resort to asking a harmless old woman for a poison? Poisons can be procured easily enough.’

  ‘My grandmother was an Italian,’ Marietta said simply.

  She had no need to say more. It was the Italians who had first elevated the crime of poisoning to a fine art. Catherine de’ Medici had brought the evil with her when she had arrived in France to be the bride of Henri II. Marie de’ Medici, on her marriage to Henri IV, had continued to spread the evil. The Borgias, the Medicis, all were poisoners and all were Italians, or were believed to be.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that your grandmother was skilled in arts other than lacemaking and the making of medicines to cure chills?’

  The full, soft lips closed tight. ‘My grandmother was good,’ she repeated firmly. ‘She never harmed anybody.’

  ‘But she could if she had wanted to?’

  Her eyes met his, bold and unafraid. ‘She had great knowledge and she never abused it. And neither shall I.’ And with that she dug her heels into Saracen’s side and galloped ahead of him to where plane trees lined the road, giving welcome shade.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ Léon said beneath his breath as he urged his own horse to catch up with her. If anyone else had told him of a mysterious nobleman visiting an obscure cottage in an even obscurer village in search of a rare poison, he would have dismissed it as moonshine. But Marietta’s words held the ring of truth. And she had insinuated that she, too, knew the secret their unknown visitor had been after. Was that why he had been so keen to capture Marietta Riccardi?

  He shook his head in an effort to clear it. He was thinking like a peasant. No doubt the old woman had been well versed in the use of herbs, and herbs could be harmful to the body as well as beneficial, and any local seigneur would count as a nobleman in the eyes of a peasant girl like Marietta. That was all there was to it. Nothing more.

  He drew alongside her, opened his mouth to assure her that her nobleman was no one more important or mysterious than a local landowner, and decided against it. Gullible she might be, but she certainly had courage and did not deserve his ridicule.

  The sunlight glinted on the copper-coloured curls that hung in a wild tangle around her face and shoulders, turning them into a fiery nebula. She rode well, and that in itself was a curiosity; barefoot village girls had no right to look at ease on a horse as powerful as Saracen. She held herself with an unconscious grace that many a lady at court would have envied. Yet not one of them would have jumped the terrifying distance from the hayloft to Saracen’s back. The mere thought of it would have given them the vapours. The girl at his side had not even murmured a protest. Her gown was muddied, her bodice so torn tha
t even despite his cloak that she still wore round her shoulders, he could see her breasts rising and falling temptingly as Saracen cantered over the rutted path. With great difficulty he turned his head.

  Marietta noticed with relief that the countryside was unfamiliar to her, and that therefore Evray was a good distance behind. A stream crossed their path and Léon swung from his horse, taking bread and cheese from Saracen’s saddlebag and sitting on the bank. Marietta joined him, taking the bread gratefully as Léon halved it, not protesting as he gave her the larger portion of the cheese.

  Léon drank deeply from the fast-moving water, wondering how long it had been since she had last had food and wishing he had remembered the bread and cheese earlier.

  Behind him Marietta lay down, her eyes closed as she enjoyed the heat of the sun on her face.

  Léon turned, watching her through half-closed eyes. It had been ten years since he had made love to a village girl. She had been rosy-cheeked with ample breasts and square, capable hands more suited to milking than lovemaking. She had been his first conquest and he remembered her with affection. Since then his lady-loves had been painted and powdered and dressed in silk and satins. Francine Beauvoir bathed in milk and even her shoes were diamond-studded, yet she hadn’t half Marietta’s beauty. Or her spirit.

  Sensing his intent gaze, she opened her eyes. He lay beside her, propping himself up on his elbow as he gazed down at her. She stiffened at his nearness and he laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to make any assaults on your virtue.’

  ‘Then what are you going to do?’ Marietta asked, her heart pounding at the purposeful expression in the amber eyes.

  Slowly he traced the outline of her mouth with his finger.

  ‘After risking my life twice to save you, I think the least you can do is reward me with a kiss,’ and he bent his head to hers, ignoring her initial protest, kissing her deeply. Marietta’s hand pushed vainly at him and then slid imperceptibly upwards and around his neck as his mouth seared hers. Then, all too soon, he released her, saying lightly:

  ‘Your debts are now settled, mademoiselle.’

  No one had ever held her like that before. The men of Evray had pawed at her and been dealt with by a sharp box on the ear. Not one of them was worthy to touch the hem of her gown, her grandmother had told her that in no uncertain terms and the rumours of her grandmother’s mysterious powers had been enough to see that she hadn’t been troubled further. She was the daughter of Pietro Riccardi and her grandmother had told her always to remember it. Marietta had, but her grandmother had not warned her about a young man with powerful shoulders and lean hips; with dancing eyes and a laughing mouth and hair thick and soft beneath her fingers.

  ‘We must be on our way.’

  Already he was striding back towards his horse, and Marietta followed dazedly, not realising that he was furiously angry with himself.

  Marietta’s kiss had inflamed him so that it had taken all of his not inconsiderable self-control to restrain himself from making love to her. A country girl who, despite her protests the previous night, was no doubt as free with her favours as every other woman. Certainly she was showing very little resistance to him now! Only Elise was different. If it hadn’t been for Marietta he would have been at Chatonnay by nightfall. Now it would be tomorrow at the earliest, and coupled with that was the knowledge that he had been on the verge of breaking his vow of fidelity.

  Léon’s experience of women had been gained in the brothels of Spain and in Louis’ court at Versailles. It had convinced him that all women were wantons who would give themselves freely for baubles and pretty clothes. Only Elise was different and that was why he loved her. She was pure as the driven snow, shy and gentle, blushing at his slightest touch.

  For years he had felt physically sick whenever he had thought of her in Sainte-Beauve’s bed. Now at last she was free and he had sent word that he was coming to marry her. The boy who had left Chatonnay with not two livres to rub together was returning with more wealth than any man for leagues around. The château that his mother still lived in would soon be returned to its former glory, making a fitting home for Elise and for their future children. Louis had been insistent that he return to court but Léon had no intention of doing so. He had had his bellyfull of court life with its light morals and sinister intrigues. He wanted nothing more than to supervise his southern estates, rearing his sons in the countryside he loved. In a land smelling of wine and garlic and not the cloying perfumes of Paris and Versailles.

  Marietta, happily unaware of the direction of his thoughts, cantered along by his side as they passed fields where peasants tilled the land and entered a bustling village, noisy with playing children. The women watched them curiously, noting Marietta’s bare feet and the richness of Léon’s doublet and boots, continuing with their spinning and speculating amongst themselves.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Léon asked, as they left the tiled roofs and dusty lanes of the village behind them.

  ‘Yes.’ The bread and cheese had been welcome but had only served to take the edge off her appetite. She looked hopefully at his saddlebag, and despite himself he smiled. She was an engaging baggage and it wasn’t her fault if her presence disturbed him.

  ‘I’ve nothing else with me. We’ll soon be in Toulouse. We’ll stop there and have a decent meal.’

  The sandy road wound on between fields of yellow maize and at last Toulouse appeared on the horizon, towers and steeples gleaming beneath a brilliant blue sky.

  In a blessedly short space of time they were riding through the main gate into the noisy confusion of market day. Countryfolk from far and wide had gathered to sell their produce, and the narrow cobbled streets were crowded with jostling farmers and pannier-hung donkeys. Léon forced his way through carts and wagons, sheep and cows, to the inn yard. The groom, noticing the scratches and grazes on Marietta’s legs and the muddied hem of her dress, watched curiously as Léon helped her from the saddle. Marietta, seeing his glance, wrapped Léon’s cloak tightly around her shoulders, determined not to shame him more by showing her tattered bodice.

  The landlord set two mugs of frothing ale before them and served them a roast of mutton and steaming plates of beans and cabbage. Marietta ate ravenously and the strong ale went a little way to sweetening Léon’s temper.

  ‘You know everything about me,’ she said, when her plate was clean. ‘My name, where I come from, everything. I know nothing about you at all. Not even,’ she felt suddenly shy, ‘ not even your name.’

  ‘That’s easily rectified,’ Léon said, his hunger satisfied and his thirst slaked. ‘Léon de Villeneuve. I’ve spent the last six years alternately fighting for Louis and attending him at court.’

  ‘At Versailles?’ Marietta’s eyes widened.

  He nodded. ‘Now I’m on my way home to Chatonnay.’

  ‘Do they have lacemakers in Chatonnay?’ Marietta asked tentatively.

  ‘No, more’s the pity,’ he added, thinking of the long journey he would have to make to purchase lace fine enough for Elise’s gowns.

  ‘Is it to Chatonnay that we’re riding?’

  ‘It’s to Chatonnay that I’m riding,’ he corrected.

  Her face whitened. ‘I thought I was to travel with you?’

  ‘Away from Evray,’ Léon agreed, helping himself to apple tart. ‘And I’ll give you the horse and a gold piece when we part.’

  ‘I don’t want your gold!’ Marietta said thickly. ‘I thought that …’ She faltered, the colour rushing into her cheeks.

  He said bluntly, ‘I ride to Chatonnay to marry.’

  She stared unbelievingly at him, the blood drumming in her ears. ‘Then you shouldn’t have treated me as a whore!’

  ‘God’s grace, I only kissed you!’ Léon protested defensively.

  Pie and plate were flung across his face.

  ‘Hell and the Devil!’ Léon’s temper snapped. He seized her wrist, dragging her from the table as pastry and fruit clung to his cheek, dripping dow
n on to his doublet. ‘I should have left you to burn!’

  She clawed at his face wildly, and the landlord came running in just in time to see Léon force a struggling Marietta firmly across his knee and slap her resoundingly. The landlord grinned, crossing his arms to watch at his leisure. No doubt the wench had asked for it. She’d made a sorry state of her escort’s doublet with his wife’s apple tart, and there was blood oozing from scratchmarks down his face.

  ‘That,’ Léon said, his hand coming down hard, ‘ is for having me struggle through bush and thicket to catch you in the first place! This,’ his hand came down to a piercing scream, ‘is for my having to gallop my horse half to death! And this!’ The landlord winced. ‘Is for having me half strangled by that oaf of a witch-hunter!’

  He let her go so sharply that she tumbled to the floor, giving the landlord a pleasing view of long legs and heaving breasts. She scrambled to her feet, snatched the mug of ale and flung it full in Léon’s face before darting for the door and the street.

  ‘Hell’s light!’ Léon cursed, wiping the foam from his eyes.

  The innkeeper chuckled. ‘I reckon you’re better off without her. That hair colouring always denotes temper, and she’s got it in plenty.’

  Léon agreed fervently. The landlord went for another tankard of ale to replace the one now soaking his handsomely-dressed customer as Léon removed as much of the pie and fruit as possible. She’d left his cloak behind, which meant she was walking the streets of the town exposing herself tantalisingly to the general gaze. Léon grinned. It would take a brave man to take advantage of her. Whore indeed! She didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  For the first time it occurred to Léon that she was, just possibly, a virgin. He shrugged. It was none of his affair. He was better off without her—she was too disturbing a companion for a man on the verge of matrimony. The innkeeper set his tankard down and then hurried away as a fresh influx of visitors burst noisily through the door.