Song of the Heart (Medieval Runaway Wives Book 1)

by Alexa Aston

  She had been a spoiled child and was now a spoiled woman. He’d had to discipline her much too often. He no longer thought it worth his trouble. He would ask God this morning how He wished Henri to handle the heavy burden placed upon him.

  Henri held still as Bertrand finished. Dressed and perfumed, he headed for the chapel to lose himself in his reveries. Before he realized, mass was over and he hadn’t heard a thing God might have told him. It was all that bitch’s fault. If she and her unacceptable behavior hadn’t weighed so heavily upon his mind, he could have heard what God wanted him to do with such an unruly wife. Now he would have to discipline her over it before they left for his business in London with Lord Montayne.

  Henri walked carefully down the corridor to his room. Control was most important at these times, he had learned. He did not punish Madeleine when he was enraged. No, that was wrong, to hit in anger. He only did so to teach his wife a lesson.

  Yet how he looked forward to this. A tremendous pressure built within him each time he disciplined a wife, Madeleine, in particular. It was as if God continued to test him by giving Henri such resistant wives time and again. God eased him, though, and brought him a sweet release of peace once the lesson had been taught to his headstrong wife of the moment. Other men might experience guilt over such lessons but serenity filled Henri after such a session.

  Henri paused in front of the door, breathing deeply, regaining his poise before he entered. When ready, he slowly turned the knob and walked into the chamber, closing the door quietly behind him.

  An empty room awaited him. Lord Ancil’s servants had made the bed and tidied up while he was gone. He crossed to a chair and sat.

  Henri waited for half an hour, then an hour. He tried to stay calm, knowing God must be testing his limits. He could not disappoint Him. He cracked his knuckles slowly, the loud crunch the only sound besides his slow, measured breathing. As the time passed, his anger grew. The unruly emotion started in his stomach and slowly rose through his chest until it boiled throughout him. The tic that pulled at the corner of his mouth when Madeleine tried him began twitching.

  “Bertrand!”

  His manservant opened the door at once.

  “Find Lady de Picassaret,” Henri said evenly then sat back to bide his time.

  Bertrand returned a quarter of an hour later. “There’s no sign of her ladyship, my lord. I have searched everywhere inside the castle. Mayhap she has gone for a walk or out for a ride?” he suggested hopefully.

  Henri slowly shook his head. “She would not do so without asking my permission. Was she at mass, Bertrand?” Oftentimes, Madeleine attended mass, but Henri rarely saw her, so strong was his devotion to His Lord.

  “I did not notice her ladyship there, my lord. In fact, I have not seen her all morning.”

  “Then find her,” Henri ground out through clenched teeth and Bertrand left to search once again.

  When he returned, Henri watched as his valet would not meet his eyes and shifted from foot to foot.

  “I have asked everyone, my lord. No one has seen her. My lady did not leave the grounds to walk or ride. She is in no room in this castle.” Bertrand paused a moment and Henri spotted the sweat that had broken out upon his servant’s forehead and above his upper lip.

  Suddenly, Henri’s mouth twitched rapidly. He felt his anger building to a frenzy yet he remained in tight control. God would be proud that he held his temper.

  He remained seated but eyed Bertrand carefully. “You have more to add?” he asked, his voice calm but deadly.

  “Only that late last night one of the guards thought he spied a woman just outside the castle. There was little moonlight and the shadows can play tricks, you know.”

  Henri watched the sweat drip off Bertrand’s lip and the servant visibly trembled now.

  “And?” Henry prodded, his foot tapping on the stone floor.

  “The guard thought he was mistaken, my lord. The shadow was there one moment and gone the next. He decided there was no reason to be alarmed. That it was nothing.”

  “Nothing, you say?” Henri stood, his fists clenched, his voice rising. “Nothing? That my wife has left without permission? In the dead of night? In a strange land?”

  His anger was white-hot, as if heat seared his flesh. “She has abandoned her husband and her vows?”

  Henri rose from his chair, towering over his portly servant. He grabbed Bertrand by the shoulders and drew him close, his forehead resting next to his servant’s.

  “I will find her, Bertrand. I will find her. I will make her wish she never set her eyes upon me.”

  When Bertrand remained silent, Henri continued. “God wants a wife to submit to her husband,” he explained. “I will have her yield. She will long for death. And then, only then, will I kill her slowly—and take pleasure in it. God would not ask me to remain faithful to a disloyal whore.”

  Henri released Bertrand, who staggered back from his master. Satisfied, Henri could see the great fear on his valet’s features. Bertrand had witnessed Henri meting out punishment before and he knew his servant would do anything to keep his master’s wrath from descending upon him.

  *

  Madeleine arrived on the waterfront in the late afternoon after waiting two days before entering the city’s gates. She had spent most of the day searching for news of ships departing for France. She had finally secured passage on one that would sail within hours. The high price surprised her but she would have sold all her jewels and paid all she had to reach home, if only for a little while.

  She knew her parents would be shocked to see her but she would make them understand what she’d been through. She loved them more than anything on God’s earth. She would explain how cruel Henri had been to keep her apart from them. Then her brother would help arrange for her to enter a convent.

  Madeleine knew true liberation lay almost within her grasp. She had traveled many back roads to reach London. She wanted no more encounters with Lord Montayne. He’d mentioned having business in the city and she knew he would be meeting at some point with Henri. The thought chilled her. Lord Montayne seemed a very clever man. What if he figured out who she was? Would he tell Henri?

  She took her small bundle and held it more tightly to her, even as she tugged the black cloak around her. She had remorse for having taken such a fine garment. She had not meant to but things had happened so quickly at the smith’s house that she had not realized she still had it about her when she’d put her plan into motion.

  She wondered idly if there was a way to return it to Lord Montayne, perhaps with a note thanking him for his kindness.

  Suddenly she was rooted to the spot. No, it couldn’t be. Dread filled her as she stared at the man not twenty paces in front of her, his back to her as he conversed with another man. The bald pate. The portly, barrel-shaped body. The all-black clothes that Henri insisted every one of his servants wear.

  The man gestured as he spoke, and she caught a glimpse of his face in profile.

  Madeleine’s gut clinched in fear.

  Bertrand. Why was he on the wharf? It was far too early for Henri to be returning to France.

  It didn’t matter, she told herself. If Bertrand was here, then Henri could be, too. What if they were taking the same ship as she? How could she steer clear of them?

  Madeleine fought the growing sense of panic and the wild urge to run. Instead, she remained calm despite her pounding heart. Turning, she hastened in the opposite direction along the dock at a brisk pace, in spite of her limp, even as she heard Bertrand and the man he spoke with coming her way. She turned abruptly, ducking behind a stack of cartons placed haphazardly and waited, not daring to breathe or even look up.

  The men paused directly in front of the boxes that concealed her.

  Bertrand spoke, his English flawless, though colored with his native French accent. “So you see, Monsieur de Picassaret is anxious to find his wife. He will pay a great deal to have her returned to him safely.”

 
The other man grunted. “I’m sure she’s the one but she gave a different name. Your description is too close not to be the same woman.”

  Madeleine heard the shifting of papers. “Yes, here it is. She’s listed as Bouchard. Madeleine Bouchard. Sailing on the evening tide tonight.”

  Merde! But there was no time to spout Our Fathers as penance. She must hear what else that snake said about her.

  Bertrand snorted. “Her family’s name. Nevertheless, she is my master’s wife.”

  “What shall we do when she boards?”

  “Let her suspect nothing. Simply post a man outside her cabin. Confine her there until I arrive with additional help.”

  “And if for some odd reason the woman is not whom you seek?”

  “I have paid for several men to watch the harbor. If she seeks passage on any ship from London, I will know of it.”

  “Very good,” replied the other man.

  Madeleine waited as the men shuffled off in the opposite direction. Her heart sank. Tears spilled silently down her cheeks. What was she to do? She could not board that ship, nor could she reclaim the vast sum the captain had charged to take her as a passenger.

  She huddled on the ground, her growing despair clouding her mind. She tried to think of a new escape plan but fear drove all rational thought from her mind. The bitter taste of defeat began closing in.

  She was startled when a young boy rounded the corner and ran smack into her. His eyes widened first with surprise and then they glowed with mischief.

  “Evan! Evan, come out at once before I throttle yer bones, and ye know I will.”

  The boy put a finger to his lips, his eyes wide and playful.

  Madeleine started to rise but he placed a hand upon her wrist and tugged her back down.

  “Evan, ’tis the last time I take ye anywhere with me. Oh, go hop in the water and swim away with the mermaids, for all I care.”

  The boy burst out laughing at her words and, immediately, a petite woman leaped from around the corner. She took a step back when she saw Madeleine crouched there. Then she spotted her son.

  “Evan, me boy, ye are the bane of me existence. If I could give ye back to God in His heavens, I would. I’d say to Him, ‘Mister God, me Lord, sir, ye’ve made a dreadful mistake. Ye meant to give me a good boy, I’m sure, but somehow me good lad was replaced. Instead, I’ve got the silliest rascal, a tyke descended from elves, no doubt. Could ye please let me return this imp?’ And Mister God will say to me, ‘Now, Gwenith, I only give ye what ye deserve.’ So of course, I’d say back to Him, ‘Mister God, I . . .”

  The boy squealed, throwing himself into his mother’s arms.

  “There, now,” she cooed to him. “Maybe God didn’t make such a mistake after all.”

  Madeleine watched all this in bewilderment. She rose, wiping her tears, then blurted the first thought that entered her mind. “You’ve got the most gorgeous hair!”

  The woman before her laughed heartily. “I’m delighted to find out ye like this red mop of mine. Gwenith’s me name.”

  Madeleine smiled at her. “I am Madeleine Bouchard.”

  Gwenith grinned at her. “Pleased to meet ye, Madeleine Bouchard.” She poked Evan in the ribs.

  “Pleased to meet ye,” the young boy echoed. “Mama, can we go now? Ye said ’twas a nasty place here.”

  “Then why’d ye run off from me, lad?” Gwenith scolded.

  Evan considered this. “Why, to protect ye, of course. To keep all the bad ’un’s away.”

  Gwenith’s rich laughter tinkled musically. “Ye are a scamp, me little one. A charming one, but a scamp, nonetheless.” She squeezed his shoulder affectionately as she glanced across at Madeleine.

  “Well, we must be off.” Gwenith began to turn as a tear slowly trickled down Madeleine’s cheek.

  Gwenith peered at her with concern. “Are ye lost, Maddie? Did ye fight with yer Mister Bouchard?”

  “No,” Madeleine said hastily. “Mister Bouchard is . . . well . . . he’s . . .” Her voice trailed off and suddenly her tears began flowing freely.

  “There, there, me girl,” the young woman said, and placed an arm around Madeleine’s waist as she balanced the squirming boy in the other. “Ye look like ye could use a friend, love.” She gave Madeleine a squeeze.

  “’Tis a long story.” Madeleine sighed. “I find my plans have . . . changed. I’m not sure what to do, and I don’t know London very well.”

  “Some things are not even worth discussing,” Gwenith told her, looking Madeleine square in the eyes. She paused a moment, and Madeleine saw she was sizing her up.

  “I’m a mummer,” Gwenith shared. “Evan and me, we travel all around the south performing our little plays. Sometimes,” she confided, “being on the road is the perfect way to forget yer troubles. Would ye care to join us? Can ye act or sing a bit?”

  Madeleine’s thoughts were in a swirl. She had nowhere to go, not a friend in all of England. She also had no way of escaping to France, at least not at the moment. Impulsively, she said, “I do sing and play the lute.”

  Gwenith looked about and frowned. “Have ye a lute?”

  Madeleine shook her head, feeling a flare of anger heat her cheeks, knowing her lute was in Lord Montayne’s hands.

  “If ye’ve money to buy one, then let’s do it and be off. We must meet up with Farley tonight, for we leave in the morning. Are ye game, Maddie Bouchard?”

  Madeleine smiled at her wearily, then said a silent thank you to the Living Christ. Things were beginning to look up.

  Chapter Five

  Garrett pulled his new cloak about him as the wind suddenly gusted. The April day was gray and bleak, much like his mood. The overcast skies were threatening London with rain at any moment. He nudged Ebony lightly, spurring the horse on before the coming storm soaked them.

  He guided the steed through the tight streets that already teemed with people, though it was but eight of the clock. As he continued, a fine mist began, slowly turning into a lazy drizzle. Garrett cursed under his breath. He had hoped to reach his destination before the rains began. Now he would arrive wet and miserable, feeling as black as his soul at this moment. He pondered on his mood, which had been dark since they’d reached London. Or rather, as Ashby had pointed out, since just before they’d come upon the city.

  Thanks to Lady Montayne.

  The vision of the woman calling herself thus invaded his private musings. He had tried to shake off her image over the last two days with no luck. She came to him at the oddest times, when he least expected it.

  Why was he so taken with a stranger? Especially one whose true name he didn’t even know. He closed his eyes briefly and the blond beauty appeared again. He could see those deep amethyst eyes that dominated her face. The flawless skin, the delicate bone structure, the generous mouth that wove her outlandish tales, were all too real.

  And the feel of her. Garrett remembered how little she weighed, despite her height, which was taller than any woman he’d seen. She’d fit quite nicely against him once she’d fallen asleep in the saddle.

  Garrett cursed again and opened his eyes. The picture of the mystery woman dissolved, leaving him to wonder again why she plagued him so. He thought back to his conversation with Ashby the previous day.

  “You’re coming out of your mourning for Lynnette, Garrett,” Ashby reminded him. “It’s simple to see. You’re ready to live again. You’ve met an exceptionally attractive woman and you were drawn to her.” Ashby shrugged nonchalantly, which infuriated Garrett.

  “I’ve had plenty of women since Lynnette’s leaving,” he told his friend bluntly.

  “Aye, Garrett, but you’ve not gotten close to any one of them. They were nothing more than a quick roll in the hay—sometimes literally.” Ashby laughed, amused by his own clever reply.

  Garrett suspected Ashby was right. He’d changed when his wife had disappeared. He did everything possible to keep busy, the better to have no time to think. To feel. Driven in all he d
id. He’d thrown himself into the management of his estate in England and the vineyards he owned in France, even taking his first trip to the Bordeaux area the previous year. He had learned more about wines during his month in France than he would have thought possible. Robert Bouchard, who oversaw the Montayne family estates in France, had proven to be reliable and knowledgeable. His son, Pierre, had even more expertise. By the time Garrett came home, he could list all the fine intricacies of a Cabernet Sauvignon and how it was distinguished from a Merlot.

  Unfortunately, he had turned to his cups lately, drinking more heavily when the headaches came upon him, as much to numb the throbbing in his head as to ease the pain in his heart.

  Now, some strange woman had come into his life and intrigued him with her beauty and her spinning of yarns and, suddenly, he felt alive again, wondering what new story she’d invent once they reached London and she didn’t know where the Montayne family home lay. Then she’d cheated him by vanishing without a trace. Garrett suspected the smith’s wife had known more than she’d let on, but short of beating the woman into a confession, he’d been helpless. Despite his reputation, he had never struck a woman, and so he and Ashby had pressed on to London without their female companion.

  Garrett arrived at Lord Fenton’s, the gentleman who’d introduced him to Henri de Picassaret. He dismounted and handed Ebony’s reins to a young lad, who gazed at the steed with admiration.

  Garrett ran his fingers through his damp hair and hurried up to the shelter of Fenton’s home. A pretty blond maid answered his knock and led him down a long corridor. Normally, Garrett would have enjoyed the sway of her hips—but she wasn’t the blond female who weighed on his mind. He was glad he’d left Ashby behind in the Montayne shipping offices, for this comely wench would have distracted his friend from the business at hand.

  The servant showed him to a cozy room, complete with a roaring fire. He slipped his cloak off and tossed it aside, taking a seat near the fireplace. He stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. The heat quickly warmed him, slowly moving from his booted feet up his chilled limbs.