The silence continued. Raphael toyed with his glass.
‘It seems her heart is elsewhere, and that it is a very loyal one. A pity that it should be treated so callously, my friend.’
Slowly Léon walked into the centre of the room and faced him.
Raphael shook his head in wonder. ‘ Lord of grace, but you’re a fool, Léon! To marry an old man’s toy like Elise when you could have Marietta for a wife. Are you mad? Elise will never be mistress of Chatonnay. It is upon Mathilde that the comfort and running of your home will fall, and as to what that comfort will be.…’ Raphael shrugged expressively. ‘How long have we known each other? Twenty years? Twenty-two? I know what you want from life. To rear your children here, on the soil of the south. To hunt and hawk with them.
‘Elise will hand her children over to a wet nurse. If she has any,’ he added for good measure. ‘ Then they will be farmed out to aristocratic houses in Paris as are other children of your class, whose parents stay stubbornly on in the provinces. Elise is capable of nothing else. She tires after one dance. She tires too easily to ride, or to hawk, or to even play chess.’
Nearly, but not quite, he said she would tire too easily to make love. There were things which could not be said, and Raphael knew he had nearly crossed the acceptable limit. He poured himself another brandy.
‘So why this constancy to Elise Sainte-Beuve when there is one who suits you so much better? One who loves you with an intensity any man would envy?’
Léon raised his hands to his throbbing temples. ‘Sweet Jesus, Raphael, it had been six years! For six years I carried Elise’s memory with me. She stood for everything that I cherished. Chatonnay. Languedoc. I built up a vision of our life together here…’ He broke off, his face anguished, and silently Raphael handed him his brandy. ‘If I had not met Marietta I would have married her.’
‘And died of boredom,’ his friend finished for him.
Léon smiled bitterly. ‘No doubt. Already I dread the endless hours at Lancerre, talking about fashions and other inanities. The doings of the King. Whether the Queen is aware of La Montespan’s intrigue with him. Things in which I have no interest and never shall.’
‘Then why marry her?’
‘I shall not. I ride to Lancerre tomorrow to inform her of the fact. It will hurt her unbearably, but there is no other course of action open to me. I know now that I do not love her, that I never loved her. That it was only a dream—a mirage.’
‘Then I suggest,’ Raphael said, rising to his feet, ‘that you inform Marietta of that fact and of another one.’
‘Which is?’
‘That it is her you love.’
And he let himself out of Léon’s room, reflecting that his friends at court would never believe it. He, Raphael de Malbré, handing over a prize like Marietta Riccardi without so much as a fight. He wondered if he was wanting in the head, and then remembered the agony in the lustrous green eyes as they had gazed up at him and she had said, ‘I love Léon. I will always love Léon.’
Perhaps this one selfless action would redeem him for the many hearts he had broken and the countless husbands he had deceived. It was a droll thought, and he smiled as he snuffed his candle and lay down in his bed. Céleste, he reflected as sleep engulfed him, was really quite a pretty girl. And it was foolish to grieve for a love one could not have.
Marietta crept into bed, emotionally exhausted. A trollop. She, Marietta Riccardi, a trollop! She buried her face in the pillow, wondering if her life would be long enough for her ever to forget the look of contempt on his face as he had thrust her from him. His behaviour had been unpardonable. Inexcusable. Why should she, a Riccardi, suffer so much because a man who was arrogant and overbearing should fail to love her?
She closed her eyes against the hurt, wondering if it wouldn’t have been better if he had left her to her fate at Evray.
Léon, too, was sleepless. Raphael said Marietta loved him, but after his behaviour was it possible that she still did so? He groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. Only time would tell. He would speak to her in the morning, but that was hours away. He slipped on his linen shirt and leather jerkin and descended the stairs, quietly whistling his dogs. Then, a musket under his arm, he let himself out of the château, striding over the drawbridge into the darkness.
It was early morning before he returned. He slung two herons and six hares on to the wooden kitchen table, but Marietta, taking the first batch of wheaten loaves out of the oven, gave no indication of being aware of his presence. Her back was straight, her head held high. Her face was a little paler than usual, but otherwise there was no sign of the tears she had shed through the night.
‘Thank you, Monsieur le Comte,’ Cécile said, removing the bloodied game from the table to clean.
He didn’t seem to hear her. He was staring at Marietta as she shaped the dough for a second batch of bread with unnecessary vigour. Cécile felt suddenly uncomfortable. Why was he staring at Marietta like that? It was a look Cécile had never seen on her master’s face before. Almost pleading.
She shook herself and hurried away with the birds. The Lion of Languedoc wouldn’t demean himself to plead for the favours of any woman. Not even the highest in the land. She was imagining things. Nevertheless, there was a very strange atmosphere in the kitchen and she would have had to be blind not to see the deep scratches running down his cheek. Those would take some explaining away to the pretty Madame Sainte-Beuve. She couldn’t help looking over her shoulder curiously as she crossed the courtyard. The bread was taking Marietta an unconscionable long time to prepare, and it seemed to Cécile that neither of them had moved.
The bread was put aside to rise at last and Marietta marched purposefully past him to the pantry.
‘Marietta, I’ve come to talk to you.’
‘I’m busy, Monsieur le Comte.’ Her voice was devoid of expression.
‘Marietta, I’ve come to apologise.’
She poured vinegar into a flask, adding rosemary and lavender.
‘Your apology is accepted, Monsieur le Comte.’
‘For God’s sake, stop this Monsieur le Comte business,’ Léon said exasperatedly.
She faced him, her head defiantly high. ‘But that is who you are, Monsieur le Comte, and I, as you so clearly pointed out last night, am a trollop.’ She corked the flask and walked past him to the courtyard and her waiting mare.
He resisted the urge to take her by the shoulders and shake her. After all, he deserved her contempt. She was hardly likely to fall willingly into his arms after the way he had treated her the previous evening.
‘Marietta!’ He strode after her, determined to make her listen, but she had already vaulted into the saddle and the sound of his mother’s voice prevented him from dragging her forcibly to the ground. He turned impatiently to Jeannette. ‘Yes? What is it?’
‘Céleste has accompanied Elise’s steward to greet a wedding guest newly arrived in Montpellier!’
‘Lord of grace! If that stupid child opens her mouth in Montpellier we’ll have the witch-hunters at Chatonnay within hours! Tell Henri to give my apologies to Elise. Tell him to tell her I won’t be able to see her today, that I have business in Montpellier.’
Jeannette stared at him, seeing for the first time the angry scratchmarks.
‘What has happened to your face?’
‘I’ve been hunting,’ he said curtly, indicating the hares on the table.
‘But that’s no reason for…’
‘If I want to get to Montpellier in time to stop Céleste doing any harm I’ll have to hurry.’ He picked up his gauntlets, drawing them on as he strode out into the courtyard and to the stables, not bothering to even change his leather jerkin for more suitable attire.
‘Why so downcast?’ Henri asked Jeannette as Léon mounted Saracen and clattered noisily out of the courtyard and towards the drawbridge.
‘Selfish thoughts,’ Jeannette said, knowing she could tell him nothing of her anxieties for Marietta
’s safety or for her son’s happiness. ‘Léon has asked that you give Elise a message from him. He has had to go to Montpellier and will not be able to see her today.’
The Duke brightened, unable to conceal his pleasure at the prospect of Madame Sainte-Beuve’s company without the intrusion of her husband-to-be. Jeannette wondered if she should ask him about his feelings for her future daughter-in-law, and decided against it. Life was complicated enough at the moment.
‘Perhaps Marietta would like to accompany me?’ Henri asked, hoping that she would not.
‘Marietta has already left for the Brissacs’.’
‘But I thought the Brissac girl was completely recovered?’ The Duke raised his eyebrows slightly.
Jeannette made a helpless motion with her hands. ‘So did I, but everyone seems to be behaving strangely. Léon spent half the night out hunting and Céleste has gone to Montpellier with Elise’s steward.’
‘What the devil for?’
‘To greet a wedding guest and escort him to Lancerre.’
‘Or to see the witch-hunters,’ Henri said with a laugh.
Jeannette forced a smile. ‘I should think that even Céleste has more sense than that,’ she said, wishing she could sound more convincing.
‘Monsieur le Duc,’ Elise gasped, her face brightening as Henri entered the room bearing a gift of sweetened angelica.
‘I bring bad news, not good,’ he said genially. ‘Léon has business in Montpellier, and so will be unable to visit Lancerre today.’
Elise made a little sound of disappointment and then said with childish pleasure, ‘Angelica! I haven’t had sweetened angelica for ages. You are kind.’
‘If we were in Paris I would have sent you sapphires to match your eyes,’ he said gallantly. ‘As it is I’m like the poorest peasant. All I can offer is angelica.’
A blush rose to Elise’s cheeks. ‘I believe that Madame de Montespan wears sapphires,’ she said shyly.
The Duke remembered Marietta’s veiled hints as to her knowledge of that lady, and chastised himself for not already seeking her out and questioning her about it. He would do so tonight. It would be soon enough. For the moment all that mattered was Elise.
He turned his attention fully back to her, where it was wholeheartedly reciprocated. The conversation, as always, was firmly on Versailles, and the Duke saw no need to request Elise’s dour-faced housekeeper to act as chaperone. Neither, happily, did Elise. In the Duke’s company she blossomed like a flower in the warmth of the sun, her soft laughter filling the terraces and flower-filled garden. The servants looked at each other. There was no such laughter to be heard when the Lion of Languedoc came visiting. Then their mistress remained tongue-tied and uncomfortable, which was a very strange state of affairs considering that he was her lover and her betrothed.
Elise and Henri continued to enjoy the peace and tranquillity of the afternoon, unaware that only miles away Marietta was facing death from the oldest enemy of man.
Angrily Marietta spurred her mare out of the courtyard towards the Brissacs’ cottage, unshed tears in her eyes. Damn him! Did he think all he had to do was offer an apology and she would forget his insults? Perhaps it had occurred to him that she could quite easily tell Elise of his advances. That, not remorse, was the reason for his so-called apology. Her hair streamed in the wind and she dug her heels into the mare’s side, urging her faster and faster across the sun-baked earth.
She had no real need to visit Ninette. The girl was once again fit and well. Her journey had only been an excuse to leave the château, to have some time to herself for thinking things out quietly, away from Léon’s disturbing presence. If the witch-hunters were in Montpellier then her presence at Chatonnay was a danger to them all. To Jeannette: to Céleste: and to Léon. Now was the time to do what she had always known she must do eventually—leave the château that had become her home. Leave Jeannette, who was daily becoming like her own mother. And leave Léon, never to see him again.
The de Villeneuve wedding gown would never be finished. It had been a daydream of the future, not a vision. She would leave today, quietly and unobtrusively. She left the track, climbing up into the hills. Below her she could see the Montpellier road. Soon, very soon, a black-robed figure would ride that way towards Chatonnay, and when it did, she, Marietta Riccardi, would have to be far away.
She slipped from her mare’s back, letting it wander freely as she sat in the shade of a giant tumble of rocks. A lizard ran across her path and she shielded her eyes against the heat haze. Surely that was Léon riding for Montpellier? Only he sat a horse with such ease and arrogance, and there were few stallions as distinctive as Saracen in Languedoc.
From nearby came a sound that drove all thoughts of the distant horseman from her mind. A sound that rooted her to the spot in a terror ages old, the unmistakable sound of a wolf.
‘Blessèd Jesu,’ she whispered, scrambling to her feet. ‘Not that! Clothilde! Clothilde!’ But the mare had sharper ears than Marietta, and was already dashing headlong down the hillside in a terrified frenzy.
Sweat broke out on Marietta’s forehead. If she ran the wolf would pounce on her. If she was very still and it was not in search of food it was just possible that it would pass her by.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,’ she whispered, ‘pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death…’
There came the soft thud of a heavy body jumping to the ground, and the threatening grey form of a wolf emerged from a thicket of trees. It moved towards her, its back arched, its coat bristling. Marietta screamed and continued screaming. Her only hope of safety was to hide herself in a niche of rock that the ravening animal could not penetrate. Feverishly she sought a gap in the tumble of boulders. Only smooth stone met her clawing fingers. She could hear the panting breath; could sense the beast only yards behind her. She turned, flattening herself against the stones, senseless with terror. Her screams rang out over the deserted countryside. Deserted except for one figure and Marietta, her eyes locked with those of the deadly animal padding towards her, was not even aware of Saracen galloping furiously up the hillside in a flurry of dust and falling stones.
She was powerless to move now. Threateningly the animal approached, nearer and nearer; crouching low on its haunches, preparing to spring.
‘Please Lord! No! Please Lord! Sweet Lord.…’ Her heart pounded, the blood drumming in her ears. Had she escaped the flames for this? To be torn limb from limb by a fiend with slavering fangs and blood-red eyes? The haunches tightened, and she closed her eyes and gave one last scream.
She never saw him appear. One minute there was nothing in the world but the wolf and herself and the next Léon was there, leaping from Saracen’s back with a dagger held high in his hand. The animal turned, springing viciously towards him, and Léon leapt at it, the knife plunging into the base of its throat. They fell together, the wolf still thrashing, man and beast covered in blood. Then, after what seemed an eternity, Léon rose unsteadily to his feet and the wolf lay motionless.
‘Oh, my God! Oh, Léon! Léon!’ She threw herself into his arms, uncaring of the blood, uncaring of everything. ‘Has he hurt you? Are you all right? Speak to me, Blessèd Jesu, please speak to me!’
He held her so close she could hardly breathe and, still holding her prisoner, he asked, ‘Am I no longer Monsieur le Comte, to be kept at a frigid distance?’
She raised a tortured face to his. ‘How can you talk so? You know I didn’t mean it.’
‘I only know what you have shown me, my sweet love. Contempt and scorn.’
‘No! It’s you who has shown nothing but contempt. Calling me a trollop, while I … I.…’ She faltered, aware for the first time that she was trapped in his arms and that he showed no signs of releasing her.
‘Yes?’ he asked softly.
There was blood on his face and jerkin. She could feel its sticky warmth seeping into her bodice. He was hurt and bleeding, but all she could do was stay pressed close to him, her heart turn
ing over as the dark eyes burned into hers.
‘While I loved you,’ she said at last.
‘And I you.’
Her knees weakened and without his support she would have fallen.
‘Elise?’ she whispered almost inaudibly.
‘Elise will be hurt, but not as much as she would have by marrying a man who does not love her.’
‘Oh, Léon, do you mean it?’ She could hardly breathe. Her entire life depended on his answer.
‘I mean it,’ he said huskily. ‘The men of Evray were right, you are a witch. You bewitched me the minute I set eyes on you and it’s my belief you will continue to do so until death—and beyond.’ He kissed her tenderly and then with increasing passion. Her mouth answered his with a savage joy, her arms around his neck, her fingers deep in the riotous curls.
‘Hell’s light, what a fool I’ve been,’ he said at last as he lifted his mouth from hers and stared down at the heart-shaped face that had haunted him waking and sleeping. ‘And to have it pointed out to me by a de Malbré! Will you ever forgive me, my sweet love?’
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ she said, her mouth still sweet from his kisses. ‘You acted as you did out of honour.’
His lips curved in a faint smile. ‘Not completely. You’d make a saint forget honour,’ and he kissed her again, this time with the hunger and the longing of a man long starved.
Her body yielded pleasurably against his. It was as if all his strength passed into her and she knew that never again would she be afraid. ‘The vision,’ she said softly as his lips moved to her forehead, kissing the satin-smooth softness in a gesture of homage.
‘Only witches have visions,’ he said caressingly, his eyes laughing down at her.
She shook her head. ‘Sometimes the good Lord gives them to those who pray.’
‘And what did you pray for, sweet love?’
‘For a husband who would love me so much that he would fight even a wild beast for me.’
He smiled. ‘Then your prayer has been answered—and not only wild beasts but witch-hunters and snakes. You’ve ruined more of my tunics than have ever been ruined in battle. And brought me nearer to death.’
Lion of Languedoc Page 14