Lion of Languedoc

by Margaret Pemberton

  He said none of this to Marietta, merely saying a curt ‘no’ and continuing to ride, wondering if he would make Chatonnay by nightfall. In another few hours Elise would be in his arms. Six long years of waiting would be over…

  ‘Is it true that Madame de Montespan has replaced La Vallière in the King’s affections?’

  Léon’s eyes darkened. ‘What do you know of La Vallière or Madame de Montespan?’

  Marietta was pleased at having taken him aback with her knowledge.

  ‘News of the King’s loves reaches even into the countryside.’

  ‘Not to Evray it doesn’t,’ Léon said grimly, reining in his horse and catching hold of her reins also. ‘Madame de Montespan’s name is still not known outside court. Who spoke to you of her?’

  Marietta was beginning to regret her careless words. His face was formidable when he was angry. The lines from nose to mouth that deepened so beguilingly in laughter were now harsh and uncompromising.

  She said nervously, ‘I don’t remember. It was just gossip.’

  ‘Don’t play me for a fool.’ A strong brown hand grasped hers so tightly that she cried out in pain. ‘ How do you come to know so much about the happenings at court?’

  Marietta’s temporary feeling of goodwill towards him vanished.

  ‘I told you before, but you chose not to believe me! I’m not just a simple peasant girl. I’m a Riccardi!’

  ‘And do the Riccardis go to court?’ Léon asked mockingly, his eyes lingering on her tattered dress.

  Marietta would have slapped his face if her hand had been free and knowing it Léon’s grasp tightened still further. ‘ No!’ She spat at him. ‘The court comes to the Riccardis!’

  He laughed mirthlessly. ‘ You mean the man who searches for you?’

  ‘He and others!’

  Léon let go of her wrist, flinging it away from him. ‘Then if they did it was to no good purpose!’

  ‘None at all,’ Marietta agreed, her eyes flashing. ‘My grandmother never gave anyone anything that would cause harm.’

  ‘And do you expect me to believe that noblemen from the court of Louis XIV travelled to Evray?’ he asked, a contemptuous smile twisting his mouth.

  ‘Not Evray. Paris. We lived in the shadow of the Pont-Neuf, near the rue Beauregard.’

  Léon’s eyebrows drew together sharply. He had heard of a woman in the rue Beauregard, a sybil all Paris flocked to hear. Not Marietta’s grandmother, certainly, for La Voisin was no old woman trying to reach her birthplace and being killed in the attempt. And not Marietta, for Marietta was too young. Léon knew instinctively that she was incapable of the sort of evil attributed to the name of La Voisin. But if the girl and her grandmother had lived so near the rue Beauregard, it would explain her free use of the names of the King’s mistresses, and perhaps a lot more.

  The sun was sinking, the sky a blaze of gold streaked with silver clouds. In the distance were the steep roofs and high walls of a small town. To the south was Chatonnay. It was time for them to part. He had done all that could be expected of him.

  He said coldly, ‘ That’s Trélier. You’ll be safe enough there. A little further is Lancerre and the sea. Here’s the piece of gold I promised you and you can keep the horse.’

  Marietta felt as if there were bands of steel around her heart. He was leaving her just as he had said he would. She would no longer have to put up with his amusement and contempt, but she felt no relief at the thought—only an overwhelming desolation.

  ‘I don’t want your gold,’ she answered stiffly.

  He shrugged and pocketed it. The horses pawed the ground impatiently as their riders remained motionless, the minutes lengthening as neither made any move to go off in their different directions.

  Marietta cleared her throat. ‘ How far is it to Chatonnay?’ she asked with forced carelessness.

  ‘Three miles.’ Léon knew he should be on his way. Twenty minutes and she would be safe within Trélier’s walls. He was mad to think she could be in any further danger.

  Marietta kept her face firmly averted from his. ‘I’m a very skilled lacemaker,’ she said, only her trembling hands belying her apparent calm. ‘If Chatonnay has no lacemakers I would be very useful.’

  ‘God’s grace,’ Léon said vehemently. ‘I can’t take you to Chatonnay with me!’

  ‘Why not?’ She swung round to face him.

  ‘Because I’ve been away six years. What would people say if I returned home with you at my side?’

  ‘You could tell them how you rescued me.’

  ‘And have them talk even more? One hint of witchcraft and the village would be in uproar.’

  ‘Then I’ll never speak of it.’

  ‘No. It would cause gossip that would be hurtful to Elise.’

  Marietta had no need to ask if Elise was the girl he was to marry. Not only his face but his voice had softened as he said her name.

  ‘Now God-speed before night falls,’ and to her dismay he raised a hand in farewell and spurred Saracen down the darkening track.

  She remained motionless, staring after him, wondering what sort of woman Elise was that she could hold the love of a man like Léon de Villeneuve for over six years. Years when countless women must have fallen under the spell of his dark eyes and sensuous mouth. At least she had never done so! Apart from that one brief moment when he had kissed her, she had never allowed herself to succumb to his advances.

  It was cold comfort, especially as she remembered all too clearly how he had sprung away from her as if she were a leper when he had awoken to find himself in her arms. Easy to pride herself on retaining her virtue when it had never seriously been in danger.

  In the distance Trélier’s walls looked distinctly inhospitable. Sudden tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked them away angrily. Let his precious Elise have him. She did not want him.

  A hundred yards down the track Léon reined in and looked behind him. She hadn’t moved. She sat her horse, every line of her body showing tiredness and dejection. The night air was cold, and even wrapped in his cloak Léon shivered. Marietta would be half frozen before she reached Trélier and then where would she sleep? Cursing volubly, he turned Saracen round and began to ride back towards her.

  Marietta heard the approaching hooves and glanced over her shoulder, fearful of a black-robed Inquisitor or sinister nobleman. Léon’s face was exasperated as he rode up to her, saying curtly: ‘You’ll be safer at Chatonnay than in Trélier,’ and then, ungraciously; ‘Thank God it’s dark and no one will see you!’

  If she had had a shred of pride she would have told him to be on his way, but it was hard to have pride when the night was cold and dark and full of threatening shadows. He wheeled his horse around, setting off towards Chatonnay and Marietta subdued the Riccardi pride and followed.

  She knew that he was furiously angry, both with himself and with her, and she despised herself for her weakness. She should have refused his offer of shelter with the contempt with which it had been offered. But alone on the darkened hilltop she had felt a terror ages old, the terror of an animal being relentlessly hunted. Better the protection of a man who found her an annoyance than no protection at all. And, a small voice whispered unbidden, better still to be able to see him than never to see him again.

  The sandy track curved downwards and in the moonlight Marietta could see the dark shapes of cottages and the spire of a church. It was hard to be sure but Marietta thought that Léon’s shoulders looked less tense as they rode headlong down a deeply rutted lane past the church and on through the sleeping village. Her legs chafed and her back ached, and still Léon did not stop. Surely, she thought exhaustedly, surely his home could not be much further?

  Léon suddenly stood up in his stirrups, giving a whoop of joy that startled Marietta so much she nearly lost her balance. Ahead of them a lantern gleamed and there came an answering shout of greeting. In the flickering light she saw an old man with a jovial face, running to greet Léon.

 
; ‘Welcome home, my boy! Welcome home! I’ve been waiting here these past twelve hours!’

  He ruffled Léon’s hair in a gesture of fond intimacy. So this was Léon’s father; no gentleman of quality, a farmer at the most. Marietta liked what she saw of his face and she liked his heart-warming welcome of his grown son.

  ‘My mother—is she awake?’

  There was a chuckle. ‘Aye, ever since we heard the news. Your cousin Céleste is here too, all of a twitter at your returning from court.’

  For the first time the man became aware of Marietta sitting quietly on her horse, and his mouth dropped open in amazement. Léon turned in the saddle, looking at her carelessly.

  ‘Madamoiselle Riccardi. She’s in temporary need of shelter.’

  ‘She’s in temporary need of clothes, you rogue!’ Armand Brissac said, delighting in Léon’s impudence at bringing his whore to Chatonnay with him. That would set the cat among the pigeons! He punched him hard on the shoulder.

  ‘It’s good to have you back, Léon. The place has been a morgue without you.’

  Marietta seethed silently at Léon’s offhand manner of introducing her as Léon’s father led the horses at a walk, the lantern bobbing in his hand. For a few minutes she thought they were entering a wood, and then realised it was an avenue of plane trees and at the end was a château, lit by so many lamps that it looked like a castle in a fairytale. Corner turrets rose ethereally in the moonlight, and there was a drawbridge and a moat, pale with water-lilies.

  She felt an icy knot of apprehension in the pit of her stomach. This wasn’t what she had expected and she felt suddenly nervous and unsure of herself.

  ‘Léon! It’s Léon!’

  A young girl with glistening dark curls and sparkling eyes rushed into his arms as the two men dismounted and entered the château. Behind her two serving maids nudged each other and giggled as Léon swung the satin-clad figure round in his arms, and then strode through the open doors and into a room rosy with firelight.

  Marietta dismounted reluctantly, feeling she was leaving her only friend behind as she patted her horse’s neck and followed Léon across stone flags and into the château. The serving maids stopped their giggling and stared at her, round-eyed. Marietta was aware that not only were her feet bare, but they were dirty as well. She moved a hand up to her bodice, gathering together the tattered material and striving to make herself more respectable. Damn Léon! Where was he? At any minute the master of the château would see her and demand that she leave.

  Whispering excitedly together the girls hurried in the direction of a flight of stairs, no doubt to report her presence to the châtelaine. Through the open door that Léon and his father had disappeared into Marietta glimpsed the dull red and blue of tapestries and the gleam of silver on a wooden dresser. Above her head a chandelier shone brightly so that she could not even disguise her disreputable appearance by standing in the shadows. She could hear a feminine voice welcoming Léon, soft and full of love. His mother, or was Elise here too?

  Panic engulfed Marietta. Any minute now she would be a laughing stock. Léon had no right to bring her to such a fine place without warning her first. If his father worked for a Duc, the least he could have done was told her so, or to have lent her his cloak again. A young man in a leather jerkin and with unkempt hair stepped into the entrance hall and leered at her appreciatively. Marietta had stood enough. Léon had forsaken her: she was a fool to have come where she was not wanted.

  With a pain in her chest like a knife, she ran out into the darkness. Stable boys had taken Saracen away, and ahead of her the avenue of trees rustled and soughed in the night air. Summoning all her courage, Marietta raced across the drawbridge and plunged into the terrifying blackness. She could hear shouts behind her; the sound of a man’s voice calling for her to stop. She was overcome by exhaustion. She was back again in the forests of Evray, running for her life from the maddened witch-hunters. Her heart pounded, the trees cast grotesque shapes across her path, making her veer and stumble.

  ‘Marietta! Marietta!’

  The sound dinned in her ears. Marietta! Marietta Riccardi! Witch! Witch!

  He was behind her now, only inches away. Once again she saw the flames leaping against the night sky, and then his hand caught hold of her and at his touch she screamed in fear, collapsing in a senseless heap at his feet.

  Léon picked her up and carried her back into the light and warmth of the château.

  ‘Poor girl,’ his mother said as he strode with her through the room and towards the stairs. ‘She must have been frightened out of her wits to run away like that.’

  ‘She screamed just like Jacques’ rabbit did when a fox got him,’ Céleste said, eyeing the unconscious Marietta curiously.

  ‘She’s no rabbit,’ Léon said curtly. ‘She’s braver than you’ll ever be,’ and as Céleste gasped at the uncalled-for rebuke, he carried Marietta upstairs.

  ‘Run for Mathilde,’ his mother said to Céleste. ‘ Léon will be undressing the girl and putting her in her shift himself!’

  Armand Brissac grinned to himself-from the doorway: his mistress disapproved of her son’s womanising reputation. For Léon’s sake he hoped that Mathilde was slow at obeying the order. Undressing that redhaired chit would be an enviable task. Grinning broadly to himself, he went back to the stables and the horses.

  Léon laid Marietta on the huge four-poster bed and looked down at her in concern. She showed no sign of returning to consciousness. He poured water from a pitcher at the bedside, and holding her head gently tipped the glass against her lips.

  His mother entered the bedchamber with Mathilde, her eyes widening. Tenderness was not a virtue she associated with her roistering son, but there was no other word to describe the expression on his face as he looked down at the dishevelled girl in his arms.

  Reluctantly Léon left Marietta’s side as Mathilde took over, his mother waiting pointedly until Léon had gone before allowing Mathilde to remove the mud-spattered rags that served as Marietta’s clothes. She had no doubt it was a task Léon could have accomplished expertly himself, but he was at Chatonnay now, not in the debauched court of the King.

  Marietta’s eyes flickered dazedly open as her gown was removed and a clean nightdress slipped over her head and shoulders. She protested weakly and a soothing voice said:

  ‘There, my dear. There’s nothing to worry about. Have a sip of verbena tea and then a long sleep, and you’ll be bright as a lark in the morning.’

  Marietta doubted it. Her head was spinning and every muscle in her body ached. The lady speaking so kindly to her wore a dress of soft wool, the long sleeves cuffed with fine lace. Chantilly lace, Marietta thought as she sank back against the soft pillows and closed her eyes. And hadn’t she seen that face before? Only the expression in the amber eyes hadn’t been one of kindness, but of mocking contempt.

  ‘She’s asleep,’ Mathilde said unnecessarily.

  Jeannette de Villeneuve set the verbena tea to one side and gazed down at Marietta much as her son had done earlier. ‘She’s a pretty girl,’ she said reflectively. ‘I wonder who she is?’

  ‘No doubt we’ll know soon enough,’ Mathilde said, picking up Marietta’s dress in her big peasant hands. ‘ The only place for these is the fire.’ She laughed. ‘Saints alive, what a pair they must have looked! A good job their road didn’t take them past Lancerre.’

  A faint frown creased Jeannette de Villeneuve’s brow, not at Mathilde’s freedom of speech but at the thought of her future daughter-in-law. She chased it away. Léon was strong-willed and headstrong but he had always shown sound judgment. She should be grateful enough he was finally marrying, and not finding fault with his bride-to-be! If Elise Sainte-Beuve was Léon’s choice then she, Jeannette, would do all she could to make her welcome at Chatonnay.

  If the young lady in question wanted to be made welcome at Chatonnay. Jeannette had heard otherwise, but rumours in a small village were always rife and not to be trusted. She should hav
e more sense than to listen to them. Already the servants’ quarters would be agog at the news that Léon had returned with a barefoot and exhausted girl as companion. As to her running from the château and Léon chasing after her like a man demented, no doubt it would be spoken of for leagues around that the Lion had returned with a captive wench. A smile curved her lips as she returned to the drawing-room. Whatever the rumours, they would soon reach Lancerre, and Léon would have a hard task soothing the ruffled feathers of the beautiful widow Sainte-Beuve.

  ‘Who is she?’ she asked her son when they were finally left alone and Céleste, quickly recovering from her hurt at Léon’s words, had tired of stories of Versailles and gone to bed.

  Léon had already decided that in Marietta’s interests the truth about her flight from Evray was best kept secret. But not where his mother was concerned. He stretched his long legs out to the roar of flaming logs, a flagon of wine in his hand, his eyes dark as he stared into the flames.

  ‘Her name is Marietta Riccardi, and she’s a lacemaker.’

  His mother remained quiet, stitching at her embroidery, waiting for him to continue.

  ‘I found her in Evray. The fools there thought she was a witch and were hunting her down to burn.’

  His mother gave a gasp of horror, her embroidery falling to her lap.

  ‘And that’s not all,’ Léon said, his face an impassive mask. ‘ They had already burned her grandmother by the time I found her.’

  ‘Blessed Jesu,’ Jeannette whispered, crossing herself. ‘No wonder the poor girl was senseless with fear and exhaustion.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know if the old woman was a witch?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘No, I need to know nothing other than that she needs rest and sanctuary.’

  ‘It’s only fair to tell you that the old woman did have an uncommon knowledge of herbs and medicines,’ he said, rising to his feet.

  ‘So does Mathilde, and she’s not a witch.’