She knew He was coming for her.
The throng buzzed now, their words indistinguishable. The man moved steadily down the steps, but she was frozen in place, helpless to move. When he got to the bottom, he moved in her direction. The way parted till he reached her. Suddenly, the light was brilliant, almost blinding her, but she suddenly recognized him.
Henri.
She exclaimed, “Henri! The feast has been ruined. The food is not edible. The dogs. Oh, God, the dogs! Henri—“
“Silence!” He placed his hand on her shoulder, his fingers tightening against her tender flesh.
“Henri, not here,” she begged. “Not in front of—“
“Our guests? Come now, Madeleine, they all realize that you must be disciplined.” Henri smiled at the visitors. “Surely you see I must do something about her?”
Murmurs of assent echoed throughout the hall. Madeleine tried to tear free, but Henri’s grasp held firm, causing her to cringe.
“Lady de Picassaret is so perfect.”
“Henri’s wife is so clever, so amusing.”
“De Picassaret has his hands full with that one.”
Madeleine heard fragments of the comments. The voices in the room grew louder and louder, as did their laughter. She managed to break free from Henri’s hold and stumble across the hall, watching as the faces of the guests changed. Gone were the placid features she had first seen. Instead, their countenances took on a macabre quality, twisting and melting.
She tried to open the door and escape, but it was locked. She rattled the knob with all her strength, but to no avail. Turning, she saw the strange creatures closing in on her, led by the dark, solemn figure of Henri.
“You must be disciplined, Madeleine. No good will come to you unless you are properly corrected. Come here, my dearest, and take your punishment with grace.”
She screamed, and screamed, but no one heard her.
Madeleine awoke with a start, a cool sheen of sweat covering her brow. She had dreamed of Henri again. Her hands were clammy, and fear had left a sour taste on her tongue. Would it be like this forever? Would thoughts of Henri always haunt her dreams?
Madeleine sat up, pushing her tangled hair from her face. She had no idea of the time and knew she must start back. There were still two more performances that day. She prayed she hadn’t missed one.
She hurried back through the forest and into the swarm of people, soon arriving at the stage, her lute in hand.
“Good God, girl, ‘tis time you showed your face,” grumbled Farley. “I thought you’d abandoned us.”
“No, Farley, I’d not do that.” She placed a kiss upon his brow. “You’ve been much too kind to me.”
The burly man blushed hotly. “Then be kind to our audience and work your magic,” he told her, muttering to himself as he walked away.
Madeleine scanned the crowd, but she caught no sight of Lord Montayne or his companion. With mixed feelings, she prepared to begin her song. Before she struck the first note, Evan pulled at her tunic.
“Maddie?” he whispered loudly. “Mama needs you. She’s awful bad, she is.”
Before she could reply, Osbert slipped in next to her. “’Tis bad off she is, Madeleine. Elspeth’s been with her. She sent me to fetch ye.”
Madeleine appeared torn. “But Farley—“
Osbert snorted. “Forget about Farley. Elspeth will deal with him. You’re needed for more important things.”
“But York—“
York appeared as she spoke. His leg was heavily bandaged and he used a makeshift crutch, but he hobbled up to the edge of the stage nonetheless.
“I’m fine, Madeleine. Go to Gwenith.”
She hesitated a moment.
“’Tis all right, Madeleine. My lady friend who helped put me in this”—he tapped his leg gently— “thinks I’m doing a brave thing by performing when I feel so poorly. I’m sure,” he said, a wide grin breaking out on his handsome features, “she’ll reward me properly for my efforts. Now off with you.”
Madeleine needed no further urging. She took Evan’s hand in her own and led him quickly back to their tent.
Gwenith lay there, flushed and feverish. Madeleine ran to her, touching her cheeks, frightened by the scalding flesh.
She turned to Elspeth and said, “Please boil some more of the barley.”
The woman began muttering in her thick Scottish brogue, mostly words Madeleine couldn’t understand and had no time to try and decipher. She and Elspeth had disagreed heatedly about Gwenith’s care from the beginning. The older woman had been in favor of sending immediately for a barber to bleed Gwenith, which Madeleine had objected to vehemently. She had seen the practice used several times in her youth and had lost a favorite cousin in that manner. She was determined to try other methods to save Gwenith.
Instead, Madeleine implemented the practices of her gentle mother. Cadena had had a way with herbs and had freely passed along her knowledge to her only daughter.
As she waited for Elspeth, Madeleine nursed Gwenith patiently, wetting cloths with cool water and pressing them to her friend’s hot skin.
Finally, a sullen Elspeth returned from the cookfire and passed the barley to her. After mixing in some honey, Madeleine coaxed Gwenith to sip it.
“Come on, love, just a bit more,” she urged.
Gwenith sighed. “Ye’re a tyrant, Maddie, but I’m glad ye’re my tyrant.” She drank the last bit, falling back onto her pillow.
Her fever eased afterward, but every cough stained her handkerchief with bits of blood, black and thick.
Despite her best efforts, Madeleine realized that Gwenith was growing worse. She brushed a strand of hair from her friend’s face. “I’m off to fetch a physician, Gwenith, dear. Lie here and rest. I’ll be back before you know.”
Gwenith protested, no louder than a weak kitten. “Oh, Maddie, there’s none to be had ’round here, that’s for sure. The best ye’ll find is a barber. Savage beasts,” she muttered.
“No, Gwenith,” Madeleine assured her. “None of that foolish nonsense. I’ll return as soon as I can, dearest, and I will find someone to help.” She tenderly kissed Gwenith’s brow. “Get some rest. That’s a direct order from your very own tyrant.”
Madeleine slipped over to the far end of the tent and lifted the hem of her skirts, feeling carefully. She placed her finger into a loose stitch and broke a few of the threads, removing what she needed and putting the ring into her pocket with the pebble. She kept her hand there, afraid she’d lose the precious item.
She then made her way toward a stall in the heart of the faire. Old Pascal traveled this circuit and had bought a piece of jewelry from Madeleine when she’d first arrived two months before. She’d been low on coin, having forfeited the money paid for her passage to France, and he’d been generous in the price they’d settled upon. She hoped he’d be decent again.
As she approached his booth, she removed the sapphire ring from her pocket, having left the matching bracelet within her hem. The pair had been a birthday present from Henri, who liked to keep up appearances with his friends. Otherwise, Madeleine doubted he’d have gifted her with even a hardened bread crust to mark that day of celebration.
Before she could address Pascal, she jumped when a low voice said in her ear, “So you’ve moved on from cloaks to jewels now. And where did you steal such a fine ring from, Madeleine?”
Chapter 9
“You’ve judged me poorly, Lord Montayne,” Madeleine huffed, pocketing the jewelry and stepping away from Pascal’s ears. The tradesman might be charitable, but he was a ferocious gossip. Madeleine had no intention of airing her affairs before him.
She managed several paces away from the booth when Garrett roughly took her by the arm. “Prove it,” he said, as he swung her around to face him.
“I owe you no explanation, my lord,” she curtly replied. She turned and moved in the opposite direction.
He was immediately by her side, grabbing her wrist and dragging
her across the faire grounds. She faltered as she attempted to keep up with him. He stopped and helped her to an upright position. She felt her cheeks burning brightly as she glowered at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said gently.
“I have a slight limp,” she retorted. “Usually ‘tis not noticeable unless it seems that I’m being dragged along by a madman at an unreasonable gait. That always brings it out.” She straightened her tunic and tucked stray wisps of hair away from her face.
“Where are we going?” she demanded of him.
He looked at her blankly. “I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure?” She glared at him, mumbling under her breath. “You are stupide.”
Madeleine noticed he raised a brow and seemed to assess her. She hoped he hadn’t heard her remark. She must be sure everything she spoke was in English. It was hard, though, since the man riled her anger.
“Come, we’ll sit over here.” He indicated a large stump at the edge of the pasture. He motioned for her to follow him.
She knew it was useless to avoid him any longer. She only worried about getting back to Gwenith as soon as possible.
“What can I do for you, my lord?” she asked with forced bravado, hiding her inner
“Just who are you, Madeleine?”
“Nothing but a poor mummer, my lord. Practicing my skills whenever I meet new people. You know,” she said, eyeing him up and down, “you were quite talented yourself, not letting on as to your true identity. Perhaps you’d care to join our little group?”
“Quit provoking me!” he snapped.
“Then don’t provoke me,” she answered sharply. “Just leave me alone.” She calmed herself and continued in a lower tone. “I will return your cloak. I’m no thief, my lord, and somehow I would have seen the garment returned to you. I appreciate the help you gave me that night, and I regret I took the cloak by mistake.”
“But why did you take off? As if you had something to hide? Are you running from the law?”
Madeleine sighed. “I had reasons, my lord, too complicated to share.” She glanced around impatiently. “I must go now.”
“And sell your stolen ring?”
She shuddered. “’Tis not stolen, and I sell it for a friend. She’s very ill.” The tears welled in her eyes. “I must have money to buy medicines for her. I must find a physician, as well. She is depending upon me.”
“Is this Gwenith of whom you speak?”
Madeleine started. “I see you’ve learned much about me, my lord.” She wiped at her tears. “Yes, ‘tis for my dear Gwenith. She means the world to me. We are closer than sisters.” She rose and began walking away from him but stopped and said, “If you’ll come to the master mummer’s tent, I’ll see that your cloak is there.” Her features softened. “I thank you for its use. ‘Twas quite kind of you to lend it to me.”
Her smile was tentative but beautiful all the same. Garrett let her leave to finish her transaction. He watched her till she was gone from his sight, noticing for the first time the slight hitch in her gait. He wondered what had caused such a young woman to have a limp, unless it was something she’d possessed since birth.
She’d said she was selling the jewel for a friend. Did that mean it belonged to Gwenith, and Madeleine was pawning the ring for the sick woman? Or had she lifted the piece from an unsuspecting lady, ready to sell it to aid her friend?
Why would a common mummer possess so fine a piece? She had told him nothing but lies from the time they’d first met. Why should he believe her words now?
He had not gotten a good look, but he had seen enough to recognize the gemstones as sapphires, and good quality at that.
His curiosity got the better of him. Eventually, the lies would have to end. He didn’t know why he was so drawn to Madeleine, and he didn’t intend to let her disappear. Just as he had searched her out when she hadn’t performed at the play that afternoon, he would find her again.
He returned to the old man’s stall, where he watched Madeleine conduct the end of her transaction. She seemed a bit disappointed. Her mouth was tightly drawn, no trace of the smile she’d left him with evident now. She hurried away, and he gave her a minute before approaching the vendor.
Pascal stood taller as Garrett approached.
“And, my fine lord, how might I help ‘ee today? I have many wares to be had.” He waved a hand across his display. “Ye’ll find none finer than Old Pascal’s stall.” The vendor flashed a toothless grin at Garrett.
“The woman. Did she sell a sapphire ring?”
Pascal nodded. “Yes, my lord.” Suddenly, a look of panic entered Pascal’s eyes and he sputtered, “’Twas not yours, my lord? I had no idea. I’ve dealt with the wench before, and nothing seemed amiss.”
“No,” Garrett assured him. “I was merely interested in its purchase.”
Pascal visibly relaxed. “Would ‘ee like to see it, my lord?”
Garrett nodded and the vendor reached under his displayed wares. He brought out the ring and handed it to Garrett. As he’d suspected, the gems were of high quality, catching the sun’s rays and sparkling in his hands.
“Name your price.”
Pascal seemed taken aback but quickly recovered, giving Garrett a figure. Garrett narrowed his eyes. “’Tis what you gave Madeleine for the ring?” he asked icily.
“Nay, my lord. I’m just a poor trader and must make a profit. O’ course, I gave the girl the best she could get under the circumstances, this not being London an’ all. ‘Tis not just anywhere that ye can sell a ring the likes of this one”.”
Garrett reached into the purse at his waist and withdrew a handful of coins. He casually tossed them upon the table, noting the gleam in Pascal’s eyes. The old man lifted a gold coin and brought it to his mouth. Turning to the side, he bit into it. Satisfied, he scooped up the remaining coins and placed them under his table.
Pascal nodded to Garrett. “You’ve made a fine purchase, my lord. Your lady will be proud to wear such fine stones.”
Garrett kept his remarks to himself and moved away. He wound his way through the intricate stall area, where everything from salt to weapons were being bartered and sold. The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, and many people were trying to conclude their transactions.
He found the last play of the day being performed. The troubadour narrating was talented, but his song had none of the depth that Madeleine’s voice had held. He wandered around behind the stage, where the group was in a frenzy.
He spied a fat monk emerging from one of the many tents pitched in the area.
“Were you here to see Gwenith?” Garrett asked.
The monk looked surprised. He studied Garrett carefully before answering, his eyes disappearing into slits within the folds of his face. “Yes, my lord. You know the woman?”
Garrett nodded curtly. “How is she?”
The monk shook his head, the rolls of fat now jiggling. “Not good, my lord. Her condition seems to be deteriorating rapidly. Her fever runs hot, and there’s blood brought forth with every cough.” He crossed himself. “May God be merciful.”
“What would she need to become well?”
The holy man took a step back, then tapped a fat finger against his jowl. “I’m not sure she can be made whole again, my lord. It could be the sweating sickness. More than likely ‘tis scrofula. She would need total bed rest, of course, and none of this moving about from place to place. Constant care, too.”
The monk narrowed his eyes. “I’ll pray for her, my lord. ‘Twould be right to light a candle for her.” He hesitated, eying Garrett hopefully.
When Garrett did not respond, the monk shrugged. “’Tis only a thought, my lord. A small donation, and mayhap God will relieve her burden.”
Garrett scowled, not believing a coin offered and a lit candle would make even a ghost of a chance. Yet for reasons he could not explain, he tossed the monk a gold coin. Ignoring the thanks lavished upon him, Garrett dismissed him with a wave
of his hand and quietly entered the tent he’d seen the man come from.
He hovered in the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the faint light inside. Propped up on a pallet was a woman who, although pretty, was obviously quite ill. Her eyes burned unnaturally bright in her wan face. Her pallor contrasted sharply with the vibrant red hair cascading around her shoulders.
Madeleine sat by her side, murmuring soothing words to her. She held Gwenith’s hand in one of hers, the other pushing the hair from her brow. A young boy, his face stained with tears, huddled next to Madeleine, clutching her skirts tightly.
Garrett stepped back outside the tent, his emotions too close to the surface. He prided himself on his control, but the scene he witnessed brought back too many painful memories. He had spent many hours at his beloved older brother’s bedside before Luke expired from typhoid fever. His mother had begged Garrett to leave, afraid he would catch it. In a strange way, Garrett had secretly hoped he would. He had idolized Luke, following him around like a puppy his entire life. If Luke were gone, then life had not seemed worth living.
Garrett remembered the last time they’d spoken. It was late, the castle bedded down for the night. Most of the servants avoided Luke’s chamber, their fear of the fever keeping both them and Luke’s friends away.
A single candle burned next to the bedside, casting eerie shadows on the wall. Luke had been sleeping, his body restless, flinching and twitching. Suddenly, he’d opened his eyes, which burned with the typhus, making them shine brightly.
Grabbing Garrett’s hand, he whispered, “I still have the scar, you know.”
Confused, Garrett asked, “What scar?”
His brother grinned mischievously. “The one on my shoulder. The one you put there, you cretin.”
Garrett chuckled. “I wanted to hunt, just as you and father did.”
“And I was your quarry?”
Garrett shrugged. “I was only four, Luke.” He grinned at the memory. “I thought Father would flay me when I charged you with that spear.”
Music For My Soul Page 8