Horrified, she looked down at the blood that stained his clothes, noticing for the first time the rents in his shirt and jerkin.
‘Oh! You are hurt. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because I was too busy kissing you,’ he retorted truthfully.
‘Where is the blood coming from? Show me quickly.’
With a grimace of pain he tore open his shirt, revealing a chest scored by claw marks.
‘Blessèd Jesu,’ she whispered, her eyes widening, and then she was spurred into action, staunching the flow of blood with her hastily discarded petticoat.
‘First my face, now my chest,’ he said wryly.
Her eyes were anguished. ‘I didn’t mean to mark your face like that. Truly.’
‘Or get chased by witch-hunters and wolves?’
‘Of course not.’ She was indignant.
‘I think I would prefer to make love to you away from the carcase of that wretched animal, and in more comfortable surroundings. Where is your horse?’
‘The coward ran off.’
‘She’ll find her way home. Let’s mount Saracen. After all, he is quite used to carrying the two of us.’ And with his arm tight around her waist they walked to where Saracen waited. With a wince of pain Léon vaulted into the saddle, and Marietta swung herself up behind him, her arms around him, her head against the broadness of his back, just as it had been in their flight from Evray.
Neither of them remembered the witch-hunters in Montpellier, or Céleste gaily meeting Elise Sainte-Beuve’s wedding guest and prattling artlessly about the beautiful newcomer at Chatonnay.
Chapter Nine
‘Did you truly love me from the minute you set eyes on me?’ she asked, her lips pressed close to the thick black curls.
‘Ever since you so graciously slapped my face,’ Léon affirmed, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite his pain. ‘And what of you, my sweet love? Since when did I cease to be so objectionable to you?’
She nuzzled her head closer to the glossy curls. ‘You have never been objectionable to me, Léon. Never. I’ve loved you ever since the night at Evray when you called me an old beldame!’
Despite their predicament; the blood that was drying on her bodice and clotting on Léon’s jerkin, there was a hint of laughter in her voice. She would bathe his wounds in brandy the minute they reached Chatonnay. Léon was strong; he would suffer no ill effects from his duel with the wolf. And he would be hers for ever and all eternity. The claw marks would leave scars but they would be a constant reminder of the moment their love had been acknowledged.
She sighed, and it was the sigh of a truly happy woman. One who wanted nothing else in life but that which she held in her arms.
‘And may a man ask his future wife why she loves him with such devotion?’ The expression in his voice made her heart race.
‘It isn’t because I would be lonely without you. I had already faced up to a life for ever on my own. It isn’t because I want to be a Comtesse. It isn’t even love for love’s sake. It is because you are in my heart and in my blood. You are part of me, Léon. You will always be part of me. I love you because I cannot help it.’
Léon’s throat constricted as he covered her hands with his. They were of the same spirit: as wild and as free as the hawks they had flown together with such joy. His dream of life at Chatonnay would come true. His sons would hunt and hawk at his side, as would his wife. The love between them would be their fortress and their peace.
‘I love you, Marietta Riccardi,’ he said huskily, and then Saracen was walking gently over the wooden drawbridge and already Jeannette was running towards them, her eyes glazed with fear at the sight of her blood-soaked son.
‘What has happened? Who has hurt you? Oh, Léon! Léon!’ Her last cry held a familiar note of exasperation and Léon grinned, remembering it from the days of his childhood, from the days when he would return bloodied and bruised from fights with the village boys.
‘It’s all right, Mother, it isn’t half so bad as it looks. Mere claw marks. Nothing more.’
‘Claw marks?’
With his arm around Marietta’s waist Léon walked into his home. For the first time it occurred to Jeannette that he wasn’t holding on to Marietta for support, and that he was quite capable of walking unaided.
‘A wolf,’ he said negligently as the Duke and Raphael forgot their usual elegant nonchalance and broke into a run to meet him as he entered the hallway.
‘Only one?’ Raphael asked drily, noting the way Léon’s arm rested tightly around Marietta’s waist and the way her cheeks were flushed and her eyes radiant with happiness. So his sacrifice had been worthwhile. Léon had wasted no time. The little Riccardi was happy at last.
‘I’m afraid so.’ Léon answered with a grin. ‘Perhaps a whole pack would have been more theatrical, but one was quite enough, I assure you!’
‘I need hot water and bandages and brandy and the bottle with coltsfoot mixture,’ Marietta was telling a wide-eyed Cécile, ‘ and quickly, or infection will set in.’
‘Or love,’ Raphael said in an undertone as Léon allowed him to give him some support as he climbed the stairs to his bedchamber.
‘That set in long ago, as you well know.’
The two grinned at each other—the animosities and jealousies of the last few days forgotten. The Duke and Jeannette stared after them, appalled. Léon’s arm was still tight around Marietta’s waist, and there was a proprietorial air in the way she had ordered Cécile to fetch bandages and lotions—and she entered his bedchamber with him as though she were a wife.
‘Blessèd Mary,’ Jeannette whispered, her concern at the wolf paling into insignificance beside the new one that now beset her. ‘What is to be done now?’ and she picked up her skirts and hurried after them up the stairs.
The Duke’s fine-featured face was hard. He had left Léon’s bride-to-be only an hour ago, and where had Léon been? Not in Montpellier as he had said, but cavorting around the countryside with the redhaired chit who had already enslaved his son. He turned abruptly to the drawing-room and a glass of wine. Léon could bleed to death for all he cared. He was hurting the angelic Elise, and for that Henri would never forgive him.
The remnants of jerkin and shirt had already been eased off by Raphael and Marietta by the time Jeannette breathlessly entered the room. At the sight of her son’s lacerated chest she gasped, paling so that Raphael thought she would faint.
‘A chair, madame,’ he said, crossing hastily to her and seating her against her will. ‘ There is nothing for you to do. Marietta will see to everything.’
‘Yes.’ Dazedly she watched the tableau in front of her as Cécile and Lili hurried in with hot water and bandages and the brandy and coltsfoot lotion that Marietta had asked for. She watched the expression in Léon’s dark eyes as they rested on the heart-shaped face and concerned green eyes, the tender way in which she bathed his wounds. His hand rising to touch her cheek; her hair. It was as if no one else was in the room with them.
Jeannette’s head ached. What had happened since yesterday, when Léon would scarce speak two civilised words with Marietta? Why was Raphael, so proud where his honour was concerned, displaying no anger at the open tenderness between her son and the girl he was to marry? Not tenderness, she corrected herself: love.
The wounds were bathed in brandy, washed clean, and dressed in bandages soaked in coltsfoot lotion. Léon looked hardly the worse for his bloody encounter. In fact, he looked better than he had done since he had returned home. His hand, now that Cécile and Lili had been despatched with empty bowl and bottles, tightly held Marietta’s. Jeannette rallied herself.
‘Would someone please explain to me what is going on?’
‘With the greatest of pleasure.’ Léon’s hand tightened its hold on Marietta’s. ‘Marietta is to be my wife.’
Jeannette struggled for strength and understanding. ‘ But so is Elise,’ she managed to say at last.
‘No longer. I
ride to Lancerre now to inform her of the fact. It wasn’t Elise I wanted to marry, it was just a dream. And Elise will be happier without me.’
‘And Raphael?’ Helplessly she turned to her son’s friend. A duel between the two of them would kill her.
‘I have lost nothing, madame, since I never had it in the first place. The beautiful Marietta refused my offer of marriage when I first made it. I found the fact too incredible to believe, and so our misunderstanding. Marietta has never, at any time, agreed to become my wife, or accepted any advances I made to her.’
‘I see.’ Jeannette leaned weakly back in the chair. Everything was going to be all right. Léon was going to marry Marietta, Marietta who she loved. Marietta who would run Chatonnay and bear strong, healthy children. Marietta who would continue to teach the village girls lacemaking and bring prosperity to Chatonnay. Marietta who loved her son wholeheartedly, with every fibre of her being, as she had loved Léon’s father.
‘You are not angry?’ Marietta asked hesitantly, filled with sudden apprehension.
‘Bless you, child,’ Jeannette said, her face wreathed in smiles, ‘this is the happiest day of my life.’ And she crossed to the bed, embracing her warmly.
‘I fear I can no longer keep you company,’ Raphael said, ‘I have an engagement elsewhere.’
‘On the Montpellier road to meet the returning Céleste,’ he could have added, but didn’t. When one door closed another opened, and Céleste could play the coquette quite well when given the chance. She also had the trimmest pair of ankles he had ever seen. Perhaps if he met her on her return to Chatonnay he would be able to find out if the legs above them were also slender and delectable. The three in the room were hardly aware of his departure.
Léon swung his legs off the bed, suppressing a wince of pain. ‘You shouldn’t go now,’ Marietta said anxiously. ‘ You should rest.’
‘Because of a few scratches?’ he asked, his smile making her heart tremble. ‘I’ve suffered worse many times.’
‘Then I’m glad that I did not know of it, or I would have suffered also.’
Slowly he took her upturned face in his hands and kissed it. ‘When I return we will be able to tell the whole world of our love. Goodbye, my sweet.’
The shirt he drew on had a drawstring of lace, the sleeves puffing out in three lavish layers, cuffed deeply in point de France lace. In future, Marietta thought with an inward smile, his clothes would be embellished with point de Venise. He looked once more every inch a Comte as he strode out of the room and down the stairs to the stables.
‘I think,’ Jeannette said, watching from the window as he rode away, ‘that Elise will not be quite as heartbroken as Léon fears.’
‘Because of the Duke?’ Marietta asked.
Jeannette smiled. ‘Because of the Duke,’ she affirmed. ‘I think we should tell him of events. I think he will want to ride to Lancerre at the earliest opportunity to comfort the now free Widow Sainte-Beuve.’
Never had Léon rode so urgently to Lancerre. He had no desire to inflict pain on Elise; she had been the first love of his life, and if that love had been built on unreality it had nevertheless been precious to him, and he still felt a deep tenderness for her. But it was nothing compared to his all-consuming love for Marietta. If he had married Elise he would have caused her deep unhappiness. Their natures were so different that he could have done nothing else no matter how hard he had tried.
The knowledge gave him courage. The day had been a long one and it was approaching dusk by the time he had galloped into the familiarity of Elise’s fountain-filled courtyard. He strode towards the door and was met by a grim-faced Abbé.
‘Good evening, Monseigneur.’ It was a rather grand title for the grey-haired priest but it was one that gave pleasure. This time the kind face of the Abbé did not soften. He raised his hand, barring Léon’s entrance. Immediately Léon halted, his stomach muscles tight.
‘What is it? Is something wrong?’
‘Madame Sainte-Beuve has been taken sick, less than an hour ago. Your friend, the Duke de Malbré, visited her and after he left she complained of tiredness and headaches. Now she has a fever and is delirious.’
‘Like Ninette Brissac?’
The Abbé nodded. ‘And many more these last few months, who have not recovered as Ninette did.’
‘Let me go to her.’
‘And catch the sickness?’
Léon gave him a look of scorn and mounted the stairs to Elise’s room two at a time. The frightened housekeeper gave him entry, and the sight of the tossing, semi-conscious Elise was enough for Léon to see the seriousness of the situation. ‘Stay with her,’ he said curtly. ‘ I will be back with Mademoiselle Riccardi.’
The Abbé was waiting for him by his horse. ‘ I have given her a blessing, but …’ He shrugged expressively.
‘Mademoiselle Riccardi saved Ninette Brissac. She can also save Elise.’
Léon was already back in the saddle, cursing his injured chest that slowed down his movements.
The Abbé shrugged again. If his blessing did not cure Elise what could the Riccardi girl do? Ninette Brissac had obviously not been as sick as the other girls—the girls who had died. ‘The wedding guest!’ he shouted after Léon. ‘ What of the wedding guest?’
Léon wheeled Saracen around, staring at him, transfixed. The little Abbé hurried forward.
‘There is a cousin already in Montpellier. He will have to be told. There can be no wedding now, my son, not for a long time. And Lancerre should have no visitors until Madame Sainte-Beuve recovers.’
‘No.’ Léon’s mouth was tight. He spurred Saracen, galloping as if into battle, down the dusty road towards Chatonnay. Lord of grace, but he hadn’t given a thought to Céleste and Montpellier! Anything could have happened. Already the witch-hunters could be on their way for Marietta.
Saracen, sensing his master’s urgency, strained himself to the limit, flanks glistening with sweat as he skidded to a stop outside his stable and Léon leapt to the ground, rushing headlong past a startled Mathilde, calling for Jeannette and Marietta at the top of his voice.
‘What on earth …’ Jeannette began, as she and Marietta hurtled from their rooms.
‘Céleste! Has she returned?’
Jeannette gasped, her hand to her mouth. So much had happened; Léon’s injuries, his declaration of love for Marietta. It had completely cast from her mind Céleste’s presence in Montpellier and the danger it could bring.
‘No…’
The expression on his face frightened Marietta, and she did not understand his anxiety as to Céleste’s whereabouts. ‘Elise?’ she asked. ‘Did you tell Elise?’
The eyes that held hers were grim. ‘I could not. Elise is sick with fever, and if the Abbé is to be believed, close to death.’
Marietta said nothing; simply turned and began to run towards the pantry where her medicines were kept.
‘Perhaps Lancerre is the best place for Marietta at present,’ Léon said to his mother, his mind racing. ‘She will nurse Elise. No one on earth could prevent her from doing so, even if they tried. Meanwhile, I will ride for Montpellier and Céleste.’
Jeannette licked dry lips. ‘And if Céleste has spoken thoughtlessly?’
‘Then the world will be shorter of witch-hunters, for I swear before God I’ll kill every last one of them before they even so much set eyes on Marietta again!’
As he spoke he buckled his sword. Jeannette felt fear rise in her like a tide and tried to subdue it. Léon was no boy. He was a man, a soldier, the warrior of Louis’ forces. The legendary Lion of Languedoc. She was behaving faintheartedly. She struggled to smile.
‘God go with you,’ she said.
He marched past her, drawing on his gauntlets. ‘ Tell Marietta what has happened and why I have left. She has the courage to understand. Tell her to stay at Lancerre until I come for her.’
Then he was gone, this time riding a fresh horse, the noise of its hooves bringing Marietta runnin
g into the yard in bewilderment.
‘He has ridden for Montpellier,’ Jeannette said, hurrying towards her. ‘Céleste left early this morning to greet one of Elise’s wedding guests, and Léon is afraid that she will chatter and be overheard. He was on his way there when you were attacked by the wolf.’
‘I see.’ Marietta’s eyes were anguished, not with fear for herself but for Léon. She knew to what extent he would go to protect her.
‘He told me to tell you to stay at Lancerre. Not even a witch-hunter will visit if they know there is sickness there.’
‘If Elise is as sick as Ninette was, I have no other choice, but to stay with her,’ Marietta said quietly. She had all she needed in her basket. She felt suddenly tired, emotionally drained. Why, oh why, did Elise have to fall sick at this precise moment?
She lifted her head. Elise was sick and only she, Marietta, could save her. Summoning all her strength, she walked out to where a horse waited, already saddled by the beaming Armand. Kitchen gossip had already seen to it that he knew who his future mistress was to be.
‘Why so glum?’ he asked, as for once Marietta allowed herself to be helped into the saddle. ‘Madame Sainte-Beuve will recover, just as Ninette did.’
Marietta smiled weakly. ‘I pray so, Armand.’
It seemed to take for ever to reach Lancerre, and all the way Marietta’s thoughts were with Léon. Céleste had been in Montpellier for the whole of the day. There had been plenty of time for her to have chattered about Marietta’s presence at Chatonnay, and if the ears of the black-robed Inquisitor should hear, or the bejewelled young man who had visited her grandmother, then there would be no future happiness with Léon. She had had plenty of time to think these last few days as she had sewed Elise’s wedding gown, and now at last she knew why she was being hunted down, why her grandmother had been burned. Against such an enemy even Léon’s courage would be powerless.
At last the Sainte-Beuve home, almost covered in moss and ivy, showed ahead of her. The servants greeted her with relief. They had heard of Ninette Brissac’s recovery, and if this redhaired stranger could do the same for their mistress, then she would be doubly welcome. Marietta walked quickly through the rooms towards the staircase. The walls were covered with Bergamot tapestries, the Spanish leather chairs ornately gilded, heavy curtains of rich velvet at the windows. Elise enjoyed luxury. She would be happier with the Duke at Versailles than she would ever have been at Chatonnay with Léon.
Lion of Languedoc Page 15