Lion of Languedoc

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘But, my dear child, why?’ Henri mopped his forehead with a cologne-soaked kerchief. Really, this conversation was taking a most unexpected turn.

  ‘Because I do not love him,’ Marietta said simply.

  Henri clutched tightly at his cane for support. Mother of God, the little chit was turning down marriage with the great de Malbrés because she did not love! It was unbelievable!

  ‘And so you see, Monsieur le Duc, you had no reason to put yourself to such distress.’

  ‘No. Quite.’ Henri felt immensely relieved and vaguely disconcerted. That a young lady of dubious background should refuse marriage with a de Malbré! Surely his family had been insulted?

  ‘Perhaps you would tell Jeannette I will be down for dinner,’ Marietta said, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth as she sensed the thoughts chasing through her distinguished visitor’s head. ‘I feel quite myself again.’

  The Duke said that he would, reflecting as he descended the broad sweep of the stairs that he had, in effect, been summarily dismissed and felt a glass of brandy was called for.

  By the time Marietta came down for dinner—dressed in the amber velvet gown that so accentuated her beauty—the rest of the household was already seated. Léon kept his gaze firmly averted from hers. Raphael revelled in the sight of her, still confident that despite his father’s displeasure he would have Marietta for his wife.

  ‘I must say I’m quite enjoying this retreat from the clamour of the court,’ the Duke said, relishing the rare delicacy of fresh oysters. ‘It’s enough to turn a man into a recluse.’

  Jeannette eyed her old friend’s lavishly embellished doublet and laughed. ‘Another month of it and you would die of boredom, Henri.’

  ‘I assure you I would not. I have never known the days pass so quickly.’

  Jeannette paused and then said lightly, watching her son’s face, ‘It’s Elise who has done that for you. You spend more time with her even than Léon.’

  There was the merest touch of heightened colour in the Duke’s face. Léon continued to stare moodily into his wine-glass. ‘Madame Sainte-Beuve likes to hear of Versailles and I like to talk to her about it. The new fashions interest her greatly.’

  ‘And me,’ Céleste interrupted as they moved from the dining table to the main drawing-room. ‘I’ve heard that even La Vallière wears a patch on her face. Is that true? And does she wear it passionée or gallante?’

  ‘La Vallière does not wear a patch at all,’ the Duke said, smiling across the candlelit room to where Céleste literally hung on the edge of her chair waiting for gossip of Versailles. ‘She is beautiful enough without.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Céleste turned to where Marietta sat a little apart from them, busy with her lace.

  ‘Quite true. She leaves such fashions to the likes of Madame de Montespan.’

  The Duke’s eyes sharpened. He had long ago come to the conclusion that there was more to the little Riccardi than met the eye. Her manner of talking about the King’s mistress and prospective mistress only increased that feeling. She spoke as if she knew them personally. Yet what contact would the proud Athénaïs have had with Marietta, unless it was commercial?

  ‘Did you practice lacemaking in Paris, Marietta?’

  Marietta’s concentration remained on her intricate work, her fingers never resting. ‘Of course. I am a lacemaker. Wherever I go I make lace.’

  ‘So that’s how you know La Montespan?’

  Céleste’s eyes rounded. ‘Did you really make lace for Madame de Montespan? Is it true that she is the King’s new favourite and La Vallière is heartbroken? Does she really pretend to be the Queen’s friend?’

  ‘Madame de Montespan pretends all sorts of things.’

  ‘That’s no way to speak of her,’ the Duke said, toying with his snuff box. ‘It would be dangerous for Elise to go to Versailles with prejudiced ideas of Madame de Montespan.’

  ‘It would be dangerous for her to go with other ideas,’ Marietta said steadily. ‘ The worst thing that could happen to Elise is that Athénaïs de Montespan should befriend her.’

  The Duke’s voice hardened. He had no tendresse for Athénaïs, finding her too cold and calculating, and he was grateful to Marietta for her refusal to marry his son, but it went against his honour to hear her talk in such a manner of a lady of his own class. ‘ Selling lace to the nobility does not give you the right to make gross assumptions of their characters, Marietta.’

  She raised her eyes to his. ‘Madame de Montespan came to the Riccardis for more than lace,’ she said quietly.

  The silence lengthened and their eyes held. The Duke de Malbré had no way of understanding what was behind her words and had more sense, in the present company, than to ask. Something in her manner sent a cold chill down his spine. They would have to have a long talk tonight, away from the avid ears of Céleste.

  Marietta was no idle gossip eager for any attention careless words could give her. She knew something about the great Madame de Montespan, and his sixth sense told him it was best kept to herself. Unless it could possibly affect Elise. He was suddenly quite sure that he would rather move heaven and earth than have that sweet angel contaminated by the likes of the worldly Athénaïs.

  But it was her husband’s duty to see to that, not his. All he could do was advise. The knowledge robbed him of his former feeling of well-being. He was living in a fool’s paradise. If he had a grain of sense he would return to court immediately, not remain at Chatonnay on the pretext of waiting for a wedding he now dreaded. He poured himself a goblet of Marietta’s cinnamon-flavoured wine, reflecting that the older men grew the more foolish they became.

  Céleste, seeing that the intriguing subject of Madame de Montespan was now closed, cast round in her mind for another. She found it and it was one that caught even Léon’s attention.

  ‘Did you know that the witch-hunters are in Montpellier?’

  There was a gasp from behind her and Céleste smiled, well satisfied. It wasn’t often that anyone took Marietta by surprise. Léon’s eyes darkened.

  ‘Who told you such idiocy?’

  ‘Armand—and it’s not idiocy. Everyone is talking about it. They are looking for a very powerful, very beautiful witch. Armand says she is Lucifer’s mistress, and he has sent her to Languedoc to wreak havoc amongst us.’

  ‘Sent her from where?’ the Duke asked idly.

  ‘From Paris.’

  ‘So our enchantress is a Frenchwoman?’ The Duke was smiling again.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Céleste said indignantly. ‘She is a foreigner, but she has vast knowledge of charms and potions and can curse you in the twinkling of an eye. That’s why the witch-hunters of Paris have come to hunt her down.’

  Jeannette, aware of how painful the apparently harmless conversation must be to Marietta, said firmly, ‘Let’s have no more of witches and such nonsense. Are you visiting Elise tomorrow, Céleste?’

  ‘Yes, and witches aren’t nonsense,’ Céleste continued, undeterred. ‘This enchantress comes from a long line of witches. The Inquisitor burned her grandmother further north, and now he is searching day and night for her, before she deceives the whole of the Midi and curses us all.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Jeannette said, standing up, her face pale. ‘Please help me up the stairs to bed, Céleste, and no more talk of witches and demons and hobgoblins.’

  As she passed Marietta’s chair she squeezed her shoulder, giving her a silent sign of sympathy and reassurance.

  Marietta was grateful for it. What had at first only been suspicion had deepened into horrifying certainty. The witch-hunters of Montpellier were the witch-hunters of Evray. She was the enchantress they spoke of. She was their prey. She felt sick and giddy and had to steel herself from crying out in fear. This talk of cursing the good people of Languedoc was nothing but a blind to receive help from the townspeople and villagers. Any stranger would be immediately reported to them, especially if she were young and beautiful and skilled in making p
otions…

  With trembling hands she laid her work down, and carefully avoiding Léon’s eyes bade him and the Duke goodnight.

  Her lips, already bruised and tender from Léon’s savage lovemaking of the day before, began to bleed once again as she bit them in her fear. In the privacy of her room she pressed a handkerchief against her mouth, staring at the bright red spots. Blood. That was what the black-robed Inquisitor and his finely-dressed friend wanted. Her blood.

  With trembling hands she undressed and slipped a soft clean nightdress over her head.

  The darkness had never worried her before, now it was full of nameless horrors. She lit a candle but the small flickering flame offered no comfort; the shadows it made only increased her fear. She heard Léon wish the Duke and Raphael goodnight and heard their measured treads as they walked towards their rooms. Then silence.

  She tried to sleep and failed. Montpellier was not far away. How long would it be before a careless word from Armand or Céleste or any of the villagers that she now knew, betrayed her? Should she leave now or was it already too late? Her head ached with unanswered questions.

  She had to speak to Léon, but there were too many listening ears in the château. It would be impossible to have such a sensitive conversation with him without Cécile or Lili or Mathilde overhearing. She would have to speak to him tonight. Alone.

  She pulled a flowered satin wrap around her shoulders and quietly opened her door. A few candles still lit the passage as she made her way past Céleste’s room; past Jeannette’s bedchamber and into the far wing that housed Léon’s rooms. She had never been there before; her refurbishing of the château had stopped short on Léon’s territory. From beneath a heavily carved door filtered a faint glimmer of light. It had to be Léon there, as disturbed and wakeful as she was herself.

  Gently she turned the handle and pushed. The room was lit by candles in iron wall brackets. Through the leaded casement windows she could see the dark silhouettes of the plane trees that lined the avenue. A brass-studded coffer gleamed alongside a high-backed leather chair. Hardly daring to breathe, she closed the door behind her and walked into the room. A large curtain hung at an archway, and from behind it came the sound of movement. Tentatively she lifted if to one side, and froze.

  He was half naked. The candlelight cast tawny gleams on his broad shoulders and arm-muscles. In front of him was a pitcher of water and a pewter washing bowl. The water still moved, shimmering with reflected light. Sensing her presence, he turned and only at the expression in his eyes did Marietta realise her stupidity. One did not enter a man’s bedchamber late at night expecting to find him fully dressed. There could be only one reason for such a visit, especially when the lady in question wore only a nightdress and a captivating flowered satin wrap.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean…’ Her cheeks were scarlet and she let the curtain drop and rushed for the door.

  He was there seconds before her, his back against it so that she was checked in her flight. ‘Don’t run away from me, Marietta.’

  She was faced with a broad chest covered with a black pelt of curls.

  ‘I didn’t mean to catch you so unawares,’ she said, unable to raise her eyes to his. Only inches separated them. In a moment she could be in his arms, forgetting pride, forgetting Elise, forgetting everything but her deep overpowering need of him.

  ‘I came because I wanted to talk to you about the witch-hunters in Montpellier,’ she said, trying to control the pounding of her heart.

  ‘Ah. The witch-hunters in Montpellier.’ Léon gazed at her through narrowed eyes. She had come to him, as she always did, not for love but for protection. For love she sought the all-too-welcoming arms of Raphael.

  ‘You need have no fear of them.’

  ‘Thank you.’ There was so much more she wanted to ask. So much more she wanted to say, but not when she could feel his breath on her cheek and smell the masculinity of him. Not when her fingertips ached to reach out and touch the bare flesh before her.

  The soft outline of her breasts showed clearly beneath the thinness of her wrap and nightdress, and he was unable to control his desire any longer. Slowly he lowered his head to hers and she turned away sharply before their lips could meet. Her nails dug hard into her palms.

  ‘Am I so repugnant to you?’ he asked bitterly. ‘There was a time when I thought you spurned my advances purely because of Elise. Now I know it is because your heart is elsewhere, yet still you come to me for help and protection. It is your lover’s bedchamber you should be in, not mine.’

  ‘I have no lover,’ Marietta said tightly.

  ‘That’s not what de Malbré says.’

  ‘I cannot help what another says. I can only tell you of myself. I have no lover.’

  ‘Then you’ll marry for money?’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Mother of God, I should have realised it long ago. You soon gave up your interest in me when you found I was betrothed, but Raphael was a different proposition, wasn’t he? Rich and titled. I did well by you, Marietta, bringing you to Chatonnay. It’s time you repaid me.’

  This time there was no avoiding the mouth that came down on hers, hard and unyielding. And it was impossible for Marietta to resist any longer. With a whimper her arms moved up and around him, her lips meeting his passionately and without restraint. Then, all too soon, he held her away from him, breathing harshly.

  ‘If I wanted you now I could have you for the asking, couldn’t I? And not a thought of the man you are about to marry.’ The expression in his eyes was worse than anything that had yet happened to her. Worse than her fear in Evray. Worse than her fear of the men in Montpellier.

  ‘No,’ she protested. ‘ You don’t understand.’

  ‘I understand very well.’ His words cut through her like a knife. ‘You’re a trollop, Marietta Riccardi. An entrancing, inflaming, clever little trollop!’

  ‘And you’re a fool!’ Her voice was a sob as the hand that had been buried deep in his hair scratched its way down his face. ‘ I would no more marry Raphael de Malbré than I would marry you!’

  She ran blindly from the room, the door slamming behind her, leaving Léon alone, his fingers rising slowly to touch his bleeding cheek.

  Chapter Eight

  She ran headlong into Raphael, emerging from his room to retrieve a decanter of brandy to induce sleep. Her hair was dishevelled, her mouth bruised from Léon’s kiss, her body showing clearly beneath the thinness of her night-clothes. Raphael took in the situation at a glance, his eyes narrowing angrily. His arm shot out and grasped her wrist, halting her headlong flight.

  ‘Let me go! It is not what you think, Raphael.’

  ‘It is enough. I knew you were his mistress. But now, after I have asked you to become my wife.…’

  ‘And I have refused.’

  ‘Because of de Villeneuve?’ Raphael’s blue eyes were hard as agates. ‘He’s a man about to marry, a man who did not even protest at the thought of losing you. He does not love, nor ever will. For years Versailles has said that the Lion of Languedoc is incapable of such emotion. He is like Henri IV. He drinks. He fights. He makes love, but he does not love. Ask any one of a hundred women. Only the angelic Widow Sainte-Beuve has his heart, and even she won’t have that when it ceases to breathe.’

  Raphael’s blue eyes were ferocious. He let go of Marietta abruptly, striding back into his bedchamber and seizing his sword from its scabbard.

  ‘No! Raphael! Listen to me!’ She hung on to his arm trying to restrain him, her face white with terror. ‘It’s not what you believe, Raphael! Truly! It has never been. I know Léon has never loved me.’

  ‘And you still creep to his room at night?’ Raphael asked scathingly.

  ‘Not for lovemaking! Mother of God, if you only knew! Just now, when I would have yielded to him, he spurned me. The only overtures he has ever made to me have been those of an uncaring nobleman to the lowest of his peasants.’

  ‘And you submitted?’ Raphael felt a jealousy he had never
thought possible.

  Her voice broke on a sob. ‘ No. Only tonight. Just for a moment … and then he called me a trollop.’

  ‘Why, if you have always refused him?’

  ‘Because of you,’ she said, ‘because he believes I have accepted your proposal of marriage.’

  ‘And you have not?’

  ‘No.’ Her eyes were filled with such pain that Raphael de Malbré’s heart twisted. ‘You see, I love Léon. I will always love Léon.’

  Raphael’s anger subsided. Even his jealousy was fading. He knew then that he had lost.

  ‘Ma pauvre petite! I will cause you no more pain, I promise you. Go to your bed now. You are shivering.’

  ‘And Léon?’ A flicker of fear returned to her eyes.

  Raphael permitted himself a wry smile. ‘I shall not run him through with a sword, if that is what you fear. I doubt I should have accomplished such a feat even if I had attempted it. Goodnight, ma chère.’

  He watched her walk along the shadow-filled passageway to her own room: a lonely figure with bowed shoulders. He closed his own door behind him and proceeded towards the room of his friend.

  Léon was staring through the darkened panes of his window as Raphael entered. He was still not prepared for bed. His body gleamed in the candlelight, and at the sight of Léon’s massive shoulders and strong arm-muscles Raphael gave a sigh of relief that he had not come to his room intent on a fight.

  Léon turned to him, his face darkening. The last person he wanted to see was Raphael de Malbré. Marietta’s words still rang in his ears, filled with such savagery and truth that he could not help but believe them.

  ‘I would like to speak with you, my friend,’ Raphael said, sitting down easily in the brass-studded leather chair and helping himself to a glass of brandy. There were, he saw, several empty decanters on the far table. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who had resorted to spirits to blur his senses.

  Léon waited silently, his shoulders tense.

  ‘It seems I cannot tempt the entrancing Marietta to become the Duchesse de Malbré after all.’