Fugitive Countess Page 2

  Marietta knew that a distant cousin of her father’s had married an English gentleman. Claire Melford had sent a letter when she had learned of Marietta’s marriage, and Marietta had written to her a few times over the years. Claire had asked if they would visit, but Montcrief was always too busy. He went often to the French court. At the start he had taken Marietta with him, but when she’d had her first miscarriage she had asked that she be allowed to stay at home. Now that she had her son, she might accompany her husband next time he went.

  She entered her chamber, glancing at the child who lay sleeping in his crib. Charles was resting well, his chubby face flushed and glowing with health. He had recently been weaned and no longer needed the wet nurse’s milk. Bending down to kiss his brow, Marietta thought that she must count her blessings. She had thought that her life was finished when she came here as a bride, but she had made the best of it and was happy enough. Only now and then did she allow herself to think of the young man who had saved her life. For one moment she had glimpsed how sweet life might be, but that was mere fancy, a romantic notion that she had put away as she became a woman and her girlish dreams faded.

  Anton bent to lay a single yellow rose on Isabella’s grave. She had been buried with her unborn child these six months gone. Not one day had passed in all these months when Anton had failed to blame himself for his wife’s death. It was because of him that she lay beneath the earth, her young life extinguished.

  ‘Forgive me!’ he cried. ‘Sweet lady, forgive me, I beg you!’

  Tears ran down his cheeks for the guilt was strong. If he had not flown at her in a jealous rage that last day would she have gone walking and fallen, striking her head against a stone at the foot of steep steps? She had died instantly, and her unborn child with her, for her body had not been found until it was too late and the physicians could save neither her nor the son she’d carried.

  When they married, Anton had believed himself to be passionately in love with his wife. However, something had changed between them after the birth of their first child. From the start Isabella had shown little response to his lovemaking. He had thought it was simply her innocence, but after their daughter was born she had complained of headaches, begging to be left to sleep alone. The realisation that his wife did not love or want him had been hard to accept at first. But gradually he’d discovered that he no longer felt anything for her, and understood that the marriage had been a mistake. Divorce had been impossible, for Isabella had been a Catholic and Anton’s strong sense of duty, both to his wife and his daughter, had driven him to make the most of what he had.

  For months he had done his best to please Isabella, and then one night she had come to him in his bed and asked him to love her. He had responded with warmth and pleasure, believing and hoping that they could begin to build something worthwhile that would give them both a measure of happiness. When she had told him she was with child once more Anton had been delighted. He loved his daughter, and hoped for a son, but a little over a month before Isabella’s death he was told something in an unsigned letter that made him suspect she had betrayed him with another man. He had carried the nagging doubt inside him for weeks, reluctant to believe that the tale was true.

  It must be a lie! Surely it could not be true? His mind had twisted and turned, seeking a way out of his torment, remembering and analysing. His wife had suffered so much during her months of childbearing, always complaining of sickness or discomfort, hardly able to bear the touch of his hand on hers.

  The uncertainty had tormented him beyond bearing. In the end he had asked Isabella if the child she carried was his. The look on her face had been such that he had felt as if she had struck a knife to his heart.

  ‘You can ask that of me?’ she said, in a voice that was so faint he could scarce hear it. ‘You think I would betray you—betray my honour?’

  Anton seized her wrist so fiercely that she cried out. ‘Tell me, is this story true or a lie?’

  ‘Believe what you will,’ Isabella said, her face proud. ‘Unhand me, sir. You hurt me. Remember the child I bear, for he is yours…’

  ‘Isabella…’ Anton cried as she walked away, her gown making a swishing sound on the marble floors of their Spanish palace. ‘Forgive me. It was told to me and I could not forget…’

  Isabella did not look back. The next time Anton saw her, she was lying at the foot of some stone steps leading to the sunken gardens, her neck broken.

  Anton had wept over her dead body, but it was too late. He was the murderer of his wife and child! Yet he could make amends—must make amends for the wrong he had done his wife.

  In his agony over Isabella’s death he had neglected Madeline, his beautiful daughter, who was now almost eighteen months old. He had loved her from the moment of her birth, but for months he had scarcely seen her, leaving her to the care of her nurse Lily—an Englishwoman who had come to them after the death of her Spanish husband.

  Anton’s expression was bleak as he straightened from kneeling by the grave. He could not bring Isabella back, but he would devote himself to the care of her daughter.

  He was tired of living in this country, though he was well liked at court and he spoke the language fluently. Isabella had helped him, laughing at his clumsy pronunciation at the start. Because of her he had done well in his position as the eyes and ears of England’s king, but now he wanted to return home. To stay here with his memories would make his life unbearable. Here in the home he had shared with Isabella he would be for ever haunted, seeing his dead wife’s face at every turn, her dark eyes accusing—always accusing.

  He would return to England and make a new life for himself. Isabella had brought him a small fortune in jewels and gold when they married. Combined with the fortune he had won for himself, he could buy a large estate and build a house. Perhaps in time he might find a woman willing to share his life and give him an heir. He could never offer a woman love, for his heart had died with Isabella, but his wealth might be sufficient for some. It would not happen yet. His wounds were too raw to think of marriage. Until his home was built and a mother for Madeline was found he would give the child into his mother’s care.

  All Anton wanted for now was peace. Perhaps in England he would be able to sleep…

  ‘You will come with me to the tourney?’ Montcrief looked pleased as Marietta inclined her head. ‘You will do me the honour, wife? You are even more beautiful than when we married. I shall be glad to have your company.’

  ‘You know it gives me great joy to ride—and now that you are well again we shall go out together more.’

  ‘We shall go riding tomorrow,’ he promised her. His steward approached, bearing a letter on a salver. ‘Excuse me…’ He broke the wax seal and frowned as he read what it contained. ‘In God’s name, what does he want here?’

  ‘Is something wrong, husband?’

  ‘Rouen asks if he may visit with us.’ The Comte looked annoyed. ‘I have told you that he is the bastard my mistress bore me when I was young? She was a woman of Rouen, and he takes her name instead of mine.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Marietta’s gaze was steady as she met his look. ‘I have heard it said that had I not given you a son you might have left your estate to the Bastard of Rouen—is that so?’

  ‘It was in my mind. I have told you that it needs a strong man to hold the castle and lands. Rouen is a good soldier—but coarse like his mother, and baseborn. He would not learn from books when he was young and thought only of fighting. Our son will learn to be noble of mind as well as birth. I want you to make sure of it if something should happen to me.’

  ‘You are well again, husband,’ Marietta said. ‘You will live long enough to teach Charles these things yourself.’

  ‘I intend to live to see him grown if I can,’ Montcrief agreed. ‘But I wish you to be aware of these things just in case. Life is never certain, my love. A man may die in many ways.’

  ‘That is true, for many die of poverty and sickness. I tend those I can
at Montcrief, taking them cures and food—but the poor are everywhere.’

  Montcrief nodded, but she could see his mind was elsewhere. ‘I suppose I must allow the visit. I do not wish for it, Marietta. He is a surly brute, and I do not quite trust him, but it is sometimes better to keep your enemy close.’

  ‘You think of Rouen as your enemy?’ Marietta was startled, for she had imagined that there was some affection between the two. Why else would Montcrief acknowledge him as his bastard?

  ‘Perhaps I chose the wrong word. At one time I was proud of the boy, but as he grew he became surly and wild, fell into bad company. I would have been loath to see him the master here, though had we not been blessed it might have come to that…’ Montcrief looked thoughtful. ‘He has learned to expect something of me. I dare say I must make him a gift, though not lands—but money. Yes, I may offer him five hundred silver talents. We may see him at the tourney. Perhaps the deal may be struck there.’

  ‘Five hundred silver talents is a great deal of money, my lord.’

  ‘You are right—but ’tis a fraction of my fortune. Our son will inherit much more when I die, Marietta, and you will have your portion. You do not begrudge Rouen the peace offering?’

  ‘No, my lord. I would never seek to influence your judgement in such matters. You must do as you wish.’

  ‘Well, I think it best. I do not wish him to feel resentment against Charles. With his own small fortune he may buy land, if he wishes, or seek out a trade.’

  Marietta smiled and left him to his thoughts, for they both had many duties.

  ‘We should stop for a while,’ Lily Salacosa told her master. ‘Madeline suffers from a fever. I do not think it serious, but constant travelling is making her tired and fractious. Could we not rest at the next inn for a day or two?’

  Anton looked at the babe she held in her arms with concern. His daughter’s face was flushed, and when he touched her face she felt too warm.

  ‘Yes, we shall rest, mistress,’ he told her. ‘I sent ahead to take rooms at an inn near Rouen. We shall break our journey there. If Madeline continues to be unwell you must summon a physician to her.’

  ‘I think it merely teething, my lord, but she will recover sooner with a few days of rest.’

  Anton smiled and bent to kiss his daughter’s forehead. She would be as beautiful as her mother one day—a fair, pale goddess who would set the hearts of her suitors racing. Anton knew that he had not been Isabella’s only suitor. She had seemed pleased to wed him, and happy in their marriage at first, but had she hidden her true feelings from him?

  Anton squashed the thought. That way lay madness! His wife was gone and he would never know the truth. He must think only of the future and his beloved daughter.

  A poster nailed to a tree caught his eye. A group of men were clustered about it excitedly, chattering and laughing. He called out to them in French, asking what was going on.

  ‘’Tis the day of the tourney,’ one of the men responded. ‘The winner of the games may win a silver arrow and all may enter. Only a man skilled in wrestling, throwing and archery can win. Men come from far and wide to enter.’

  Anton nodded. As a youth he had often entered such tournaments, and the idea appealed to him. Since he must tarry a few days for the sake of his daughter, why should he not take a little time to amuse himself?

  The day of the tourney had arrived. Marietta dressed in a gown of rich dark blue embroidered with silver beads and braiding, her long hair covered by a hood of matching cloth laced through with silver.

  She felt proud to be riding by her husband’s side as they approached the field outside the city of Rouen, where the great fair was held every year. Nobles and freemen from all corners of the land would journey here, for the contest was a rich one. The young men entered contests of running, throwing a spear, shooting arrows at a barrel and wrestling. For the past weeks posters had been placed about the countryside, inviting all the young men to enter, and they would come from all over France. To win the silver arrow a man must be the winner of all four events. If the arrow was not won small prizes were given to the individual winners.

  Marietta took her place in one of the most prominent seats, smiling as she looked about at the happy faces of the populace. The people were of good cheer, and they waved, calling out greetings to the nobles they knew or served as they arrived.

  A fanfare of trumpets announced the arrival of the contestants and some twenty men rode into the arena; these were the nobles who had entered the tourney and would give the spectators a magnificent show. The battles were merely to show skill and strength, and there would be no fights to the death, as there had been in years gone by. Behind the nobles came the freemen, sons of noblemen and burghers, who were to enter the contest for the silver arrow.

  For the first hour Marietta watched the nobles tilting with their fearsome lances, trying to unseat one another. Some of them went on to fight with heavy broadswords until one or the other asked for quarter. She applauded the winners when they came to take their bows. One knight vanquished all five of his opponents and was given a fine dagger with a jewelled hilt as his prize.

  After the show of valour by the nobles there was a display of tumbling and dancing bears. Then the trumpets announced the contest for the silver arrow was about to begin.

  The men were announced one by one. The Bastard of Rouen was the tenth man to present himself, and the cheers for him were deafening for he had won this prize twice before and it was obvious the people considered him their champion. He was a tall man, thickset, with a reddish beard and a scar at his temple.

  He came to bow before the watching nobles, bowing his head to his father and to Marietta. She had an uneasy feeling, a trickle of ice sliding down her spine as she felt his gaze on her. Lifting her head proudly, she gave him a cool smile and saw a flicker of anger in his eyes.

  The next man to present himself gave his name simply as Anton. He too was a tall man, strong with dark hair and grey eyes—and Marietta tingled as she knew him. He was Anton of Gifford, the son of the Marquis of Malchester: the man who had saved her on the Field of the Cloth of Gold. He was as she remembered, and yet he was so different. He looked older, stronger—his eyes cold and unsmiling as they moved over the assembled nobles and their ladies. He gave no sign of recognition, and she felt a little pang of disappointment as she realised that he did not know her.

  She held back the rush of tears that suddenly threatened. How foolish of her to imagine that he might know her! Why should he? Too many years had passed, and she had changed. Something in her had known him instantly, despite the changes to his appearance, but he felt nothing.

  She sat back, struggling to control her disappointment. Even if he had remembered her it could make no difference. She was married and had borne her husband a child. Nothing had changed, but her insides churned with emotions she could not control. That day had been enshrined in her memory as something magical, helping her through the worst days, helping her to do what she must.

  The contest had begun. The men were lined up for the race, which started from a line in front of the dais and continued over the surrounding countryside, ending back at the same spot. Once the men had left the field on the start of their gruelling race, the nobles and their ladies were served with food and wine.

  Marietta ate little. It was foolish, but much of her pleasure in the day had disappeared when she had looked into a pair of cold grey eyes and seen no flicker of recognition. In her dreams, which she had treasured, when they met again Anton of Gifford had smiled and told her that she had remained in his heart and mind all these years—but such dreams were foolish!

  A cheer went up when the runners returned. She saw that two of them had far outpaced the others: neck and neck, they raced to the dais and arrived at precisely the same moment. Wild cheering for the Bastard of Rouen broke out as the crowd chanted his name.

  The master of ceremonies held up his hand and the crowd quietened.

  ‘For the
first event we have two winners, for they could not be parted. It is the first time this has happened and each has one talent to take forward.’

  Some cheered wildly, others grumbled, for they had wanted the Bastard to win. However, the second contest was announced and the spear-throwing began. Each man had three throws. The first to throw was the Bastard, and his spear reached to the second marker. Another contestant stepped forward, his spear flying through the air to within a fraction of the Bastard’s. Three other men threw, but could not reach the second marker. Then Anton stepped forward. His arm went back and the spear flew through the air, almost reaching the third marker.

  The Bastard stepped forward to throw again. His spear landed a fraction behind Anton’s; the next contestants could not reach even the second marker. Anton threw again, but this time he did not reach his first try.

  People were calling out, cheering wildly as the Bastard stepped forward. He drew back his arm, putting all his effort into the final throw, and his spear went past Anton’s first marker by no more than a handspan. A huge cheer greeted his efforts, especially when none of the others could come near. Then silence fell as Anton stepped up. He drew back his arm and threw for the final time. The spear flew through the air and finished level with the Bastard’s.

  There was a buzz of excitement as the crowd waited to hear who would be announced the winner. The master of ceremonies stood up, holding his hand up for silence.

  ‘On the third throw they are equal,’ he said. ‘But Anton threw further with his first spear. He is therefore the winner.’

  Marietta was watching the Bastard’s face. He looked furious, for it meant that he could not now win the silver arrow. Only Anton could win this coveted prize, if he gained both the archery contest and the wrestling crown.

  The archery came next. People were murmuring with excitement, for though some stayed loyal to their champion, others were willing the stranger on. It was known that archery was the Bastard’s weakest skill, and they wondered if Anton could win yet again. He could and did, easily.