Table of Contents
MUSIC FOR MY SOUL
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
MUSIC FOR MY SOUL
LAUREN LINWOOD
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
MUSIC FOR MY SOUL
Copyright©2013
LAUREN LINWOOD
Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published in the United States of America by
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ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-229-2
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Chapter 1
Frothmore, home of Lord Ancil
April, 1346
Madeleine perched on the edge of the enormous bed, her mouth dry, her heart beating wildly. Every night for the last three years had led to this moment. She hadn’t known when the time to flee would arrive, but she knew she would recognize when the time was right. And tonight felt right.
But there were obstacles to overcome. For one, she was in a foreign country. And even though she spoke English as well as a native, her journey would still be treacherous. She might make a mistake, one that would label her an outsider. Or even kill her. She couldn’t afford a misstep.
She flinched as she heard heavy footsteps echoing along the stone corridor. For such a tall, gaunt man, Henri made an awful lot of noise when he was drunk. But at other times he could be stealthy as a cat stalking a mouse. And with Henri, it was she, his own wife, that he stalked.
Madeleine swallowed hard and tried to calm herself. He must not suspect anything. She forced a serene smile onto her lips as the door crashed open.
Henri staggered in, his valet, Bertrand, scurrying after his master. Madeleine glanced quickly at the portly, balding servant. He wore a pained expression upon his sallow face and merely shook his head.
Bertrand steadied Henri and guided him toward the bed. Madeleine automatically rose and took Henri’s other arm. Together, they managed to get the older man to the bed.
“My head aches,” Henri complained, his words deeply slurred. “My stomach hurts.”
Madeleine caught a whiff of the whiskey on his breath. Usually, Henri drank only the finest champagne and French brandy, turning his nose up at other brews. When in England, though, he tried to accommodate his host’s wish. Lord Ancil must have been serving a particularly strong liquor. She grimaced at the sour smell that rose from her husband.
Madeleine nodded at Bertrand, signaling him to leave. “You know English food rarely agrees with you, Henri,” she said lightly. “But I have prepared one of my mother’s soothing drinks to calm you.”
Henri snorted. “Nothing could soothe my stomach now, Wife. Not even one of Cadena’s mystical remedies.”
A momentary fear rushed through Madeleine’s veins. He must drink from the cup! She would convince him, somehow.
“Now, Henri, be reasonable. You want to feel well enough to attend mass, do you not?”
Her husband rarely missed daily mass. Not that he was a particularly religious man. In fact, he went strictly to pray for his own good health. He bragged that he’d made some sort of pact with God, his attendance at mass in exchange for his physical well being. Henri was fanatical when it came to his health. Madeleine hoped her words would persuade him. She waited anxiously for his response.
“Ah, Mon Dieu. Give me the cup,” he snarled.
Thank you, Sweet Jesu. Madeleine sent her own grateful prayer to God. She reached for the drink sitting on the bedside table and placed the metal cup into her husband’s hands.
“I was able to mix your medicine with a little wine. Hopefully, the alcohol will hide the medicinal taste. I’m sure the wine, too, will help settle your stomach.”
Henri took a swig of the brew, his mouth creasing with disgust. He did, however, thankfully take a second sip, and soon the contents of the cup rested within him.
“Disrobe me,” he ordered.
Madeleine complied, glad it would be the last time she saw his pasty flesh. Though her husband was extremely thin from eating sparsely, his belly, round and bloated, protruded from his almost skeletal frame. She credited that to all the champagne he drank. If she never tasted the frothy wine again, it would be too soon, for it would always remind her of Henri.
She helped him into the bed and quickly covered his pale skin with the linen sheets then walked quietly to the other side and slipped under the covers. She was thankful Henri did not speak. She was too tense, her nerves too raw. Soon, his deep breathing filled the chamber, followed by even deeper snores.
It was time.
She crept from the bed and quietly dressed. Her fingers trembled as she buttoned her undertunic, but she finally managed. Both it and her surcoat were quite heavy, thanks to the number of jewels she had sewn into their bottom hems. Henri had always lamented that she was no good at any of the womanly arts-sewing tapestries, supervising the household, or having babies.
That thought brought her a surge of pain. When she married Henri three years earlier, she’d longed for babies and knew her husband was eager to have a son that would inherit his vineyards one day. She had imagined filling the chateau with many sons and daughters, hearing their laughter, teaching them and loving them as her own devoted parents had done for her and her brother.
After she saw what life with Henri would be like, she hungered for babies even more. Though it might seem selfish on her part to want to bring a child into the world whose father was a monster, Madeleine had such love in her heart to give to little ones.
But it was not to be. Just like her husband’s two previous wives, she was barren. But throughout the last year Madeleine had harbored wicked thoughts concerning this, and she had foolishly voiced them to Henri one night. She accused him of being the barren one, his seed worthless in her womb.
And she had paid de
arly for those rash words. Henri had beaten her many times before, for even the smallest infraction, but that night was different. Usually, he only abused her back or legs, not wanting to mar what the world saw. This time he struck her repeatedly until her eyes had swollen shut.
She also now carried a small scar at the top of her cheekbone, courtesy of his signet ring and his uncontrollable rage. Worst of all, he’d broken her knee in the vicious attack. As a result, she now walked with a slight limp.
Madeleine pushed the painful memories aside. She must quit thinking of the past and seize this opportunity. She knew that Henri grew tired of her. She wasn’t the young, malleable girl he’d married three years ago, and perhaps more importantly, she had not produced an heir for his vineyards.
Instinctively, Madeleine knew her life was in mortal danger. She didn’t believe his previous wives deaths were accidents, and this opportunity to escape her nightmarish existence might never present itself again.
She crossed the chamber and reached for her lute. The one possession she valued above all others. She refused to leave the beloved instrument behind.
Standing at the door, Madeleine took one last look at her sleeping husband. No love filled her heart, no honor, nor loyalty. Henri had beaten any feeling she’d ever had for him out of her long ago.
She made her way hastily through the dim corridors. Fortunately, the layout of Frothmore was very simple. She’d found the sally port earlier, and easily made her way to it in the haze of darkness.
As she expected, the sally port remained unguarded in this time of peace. She eased open the door. The chill of the night air struck her, and she cursed the fact she’d left her cloak in the room. Too late for that. She’d rather catch her death of cold than remain with Henri one more night. She might not have another chance to escape. It must be now, this moment.
She grabbed on to the rope next to the door, its twine rubbing her hands roughly. As she squeezed through the narrow door, she realized that a sally port must be tiny enough to be overlooked during a siege. A messenger using it had probably been the saving grace for many a castle’s people during times of attack.
It would be her saving grace tonight.
Madeleine clasped the rope tighter but did not move. Heights terrified her. This had been the only part of her plan she dreaded. She knew she must conquer her fear. She quelled the rising nausea as her stomach rolled about and she prayed for God to keep her safe.
She released the rope and, looping a scarf through her girdle, she swept it under the strings of her lute, tying the instrument securely to her waist. Once again, she gripped the rope even as she squeezed her eyes shut and lowered herself the short distance down the wall. She expelled the breath she held when her feet touched bottom. Only then did she dare open her eyes.
“Thank you, Sweet Christ,” she murmured, trying to calm her racing heart.
Moving close against the wall so she wouldn’t be spotted, Madeleine made her way around to the north side, toward London. Once she arrived in the city she’d pawn enough jewels to purchase passage back to France. She would return to Bordeaux and her parents, if only for a short while.
Henri had allowed no contact with her parents since their marriage. He said she was immature and too dependent upon them and that she must learn to depend only upon him. Madeleine later learned he’d told her parents the break was at her request. She could only guess at the heartbreak his cruel words caused.
She was determined to see her Maman and Papa once more and tell them how very much she loved them before she took refuge in a convent. She was sure Pierre could arrange sanctuary for her. Her brother was ten years older than she and though they had never been close, Madeleine knew she could count on him to help her in such a time of crisis. Let Henri have the marriage annulled or, better yet, let him divorce her. She did not care to give herself to any man ever again.
When she thought of the marriage act, it brought on feelings of terror. No, the act of love with Henri was more an act of degradation and pain. She could no longer tolerate it. She’d seek refuge and peace with the good sisters. Her jewels would assure her of a place in the convent till her death.
Madeleine crept away from the wall, watching for the sentries. She doubted they would be prepared for people slipping away from the castle. Their job was to keep enemies from approaching. They might not even see her leaving until it was too late.
She moved with caution. With each step, fear enveloped every fiber of her being as she moved further away from the castle’s wall and into open space. She feared her pounding heart might burst from her chest, its loud drumming ringing in her ears.
Madeleine sensed a guard moving along the wall walk and froze. Panic poured through her at being out in the open. Every muscle screamed for her to flee.
Yet she closed her eyes, pushing her fear aside. Movement would attract his attention. She remained stock still, holding her breath. Her mind raced, and she forced it to calm.
The brisk wind helped. The clouds blew constantly across the light from the moon, causing many shadows to dance upon the earth. Madeleine cautiously opened her eyes and glanced over her shoulder.
A sentry did move along the walkway, but his back was to her.
Without hesitation, Madeleine made for the nearest trees at a steady gait. Though she longed to pick up her skirts and run, she kept her head. She reached the copse and entered without hearing a sentry’s shout to halt.
Safe. She was safe.
She sank to her knees. A thrill rushed through her. She touched the ground almost reverently, brushing her fingers along the cool grass.
Freedom!
She could not remember the last time she’d been outside alone. Henri had a guard follow her wherever she went. He rarely allowed her outside the walls of his isolated chateau in the north.
Madeleine breathed in the crisp air, reveling in the sounds of the night. She was practical, though, and knew her sojourn would be a long one. She must put enough distance between her and Frothmore by morning.
Skirting through the edge of the woods, she finally reached the road north and began walking as swiftly as her knee would allow. After a mile or so, she began humming, softly at first, but with each step the volume grew.
Madeline relished her newfound freedom on the dark road to London. She thought it best to travel at night since highway robbers tended to be out during the day when travelers were plentiful.
She also might have to steal food along the way, and this would be better accomplished under cover of darkness. She didn’t know how far London lay ahead, but surely she could manage for a few days in this manner.
As Madeleine, she began to sing. Music had always been a large part of her life. She had been thankful that Henri allowed her to play. It was the one thing she did in which he’d found no fault.
As she sang, Madeleine thought of Yves, the troubadour that had showed up at the vineyard long ago to entertain guests. He sang for his supper that night and had never left Chateau Branais. Through the years, Yves become part of their family. He taught Madeleine all she knew about music.
“Madeleine, you are my star pupil! No one
sings as well as you, ma cherie, certainly
no man. I would wager in all of France that
you are the most gifted of songbirds.”
Madeleine smiled, remembering Yves’s praise. She was lucky that she could hear a song but once, and the melody became engraved on her heart forevermore. She had perfect recall and thousands of songs locked into her memory. Yves regretted that she could not go out and be a troubadour, but everyone knew that the troubadours of France were always men.
Still, Madeleine used to entertain her parents and visitors that had come to the Bordeaux vineyard they managed for a wealthy English family. Henri had been one of the many visitors who came to discuss the grape. The obsession with the grape was a national pastime in France. Her father, Robert, thought Henri had good business sense and admired the wines the older man p
roduced. When Henri asked for Madeleine’s hand in marriage, her father had acquiesced.
Her mother was not as certain. It had been a love match for Cadena from the first time she’d seen Robert. She had wanted that for her only daughter, as well. She’d tried to persuade her husband to let Madeleine marry someone closer to her own age, even an Englishman. Cadena herself had been an English bride come to France, and she raised Madeleine so that was fluent in both languages of her parents.
Robert refused, knowing Madeleine would never have the opportunity to marry as wealthy a man as Henri de Picassaret. Yes, the man had bad luck with wives—one had died of a fever and the other was rumored to have taken her own life—but his daughter was young and strong and could give Henri many sons.
As her trek grew long, Madeline began to experience some discomfort. She shifted her shoe and forced herself onward. After a few steps, the problem returned. Madeleine halted and held her foot out in front of her, rotating her ankle.
Feeling better, she started down the road again. Whatever it was began bothering her immediately.
Frustrated, she placed her lute next to her and sat down in the middle of the road to remove her shoe. She pulled off the leather boot and stuck a finger inside, feeling around for what made her foot ache so.
She finally grasped a tiny rock. She clucked her tongue at the culprit of her distress, holding the pebble up in the moonlight for further inspection.
“I think I shall call you Henri, little pebble, for being the source of all my discomfort.” She tucked the smooth stone into her pocket, determined to let it be a reminder to her in the future.
Madeleine started to sing a tender ballad that reminded her of her parents as she slipped her shoe back on. When she’d married Henri, she assumed love would grow quickly between her and her wedded husband, just as it had for her parents.
The song died on her lips at the thought.
Oh, how she had been proven wrong.
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