Fugitive Countess
Autor:in
Anne Herries
Gelesen
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Kapitel
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Chapter One
France 1525
‘Marietta.’ Comte de Montcrief greeted his wife with a smile as she entered his chamber, carrying a pewter cup and a small flask containing a dark liquid. She grew more beautiful with every day, her red-gold hair like threads of silken sunbeams and her eyes more brilliant than any jewel. ‘You never fail to bring my medicine when I need it. I do not know how I should have managed without you this past winter. I am sure that without your nursing, my dear wife, I should have died.’
‘I know this eases the tightness in your chest far better than the mixture the apothecary sent you, my lord. I believe the fluid on your chest is easing, is it not?’
‘Yes. I grow stronger every day, thanks to you, my love. I was blessed when your father gave you to me, Marietta.’
‘I have been blessed in giving you a son,’ Marietta replied. ‘I failed twice, and thought it was God’s will that we should not have a child—but our little Charles flourishes. He has passed his first year, and as you know too well ’tis the first few months that are so dangerous for vulnerable babes.’
‘You have given me a fine heir, but I hope he will not inherit too soon…’ The Comte frowned. ‘It worried me when I was ill, for though I know you are both brave and wise, it would be hard for you to hold the castle against the barons who might seek to take it. The nobles are a greedy rabble, Marietta. If I should die before our son reaches his maturity I have left the care of him and my estate to you, to hold for our son until he is old enough to take it—but I would urge you to choose a husband as soon as you may decently marry. I have no doubt that you will have many offers, but choose wisely. You must take a man with fortune enough that he will not covet our son’s inheritance—and one who will treat you well.’
‘Please, my lord, do not speak of such things to me,’ Marietta begged. ‘I am not sure that I would wish for another husband. You have been good to me, and to my late father.’
‘Your poor father suffered greatly towards the end, and I was pleased that you should nurse him here in our home. I would do anything to please you. I am too old for you, Marietta. I offered for you when your father told me of his need—but I think I have not been fair to you. You should have had a fine young husband to bed you and give you many sons. It lies heavy on my conscience that I took your youth and squandered it when you might have had so much more.’
‘Hush, my lord.’ Marietta held the cup out to him. ‘Drink this and ease yourself. You have been a kind husband, and many are not. I am content with my life, especially since we have our son.’
The Comte smiled indulgently. ‘You have been a good wife. I shall buy you a present. What would you like?’
He took her hand and she felt the press of the heavy gold ring he wore on the middle finger of his left hand. It had a huge cabochon ruby and was very fine.
‘I ask for nothing but your affection, my lord—but if you will give me something, let it be a lyre. The one I have has cracked and is no longer sweet in tone.’
‘You shall have the finest that can be bought,’ the Comte said, and kissed her cheek. ‘And perhaps a ring for your finger too. Now, go about your business, Marietta. I would sleep.’
Marietta sighed as she made her way to her solar in the south-facing turret of the castle. When she had married her husband he had given her all the rooms in this tower, so that her ladies might be there to serve her. She had a bedchamber, a chamber where she could sit with her ladies and sew, and there was another chamber where her clothes were kept and her ladies slept on pallets that were stowed away during the day.
Montcrief seldom disturbed her these days. He had always been considerate. Marietta believed that if she had given him a son the first time she had conceived he would not have troubled her again. She knew now that he felt he had wronged her by taking her to wife. The difference in their ages had shown more as the years passed; he was too old for her, and his health had deteriorated suddenly after a fall from his horse. They had been fortunate that she had managed to produce a healthy heir. Her son, to the joy of both his parents, thrived.
Marietta had long since ceased to regret her marriage. She enjoyed being the chatelaine of a fine castle and ran her home with ease. Her child had brought her great joy and made her sewing a pleasure, for she liked to see the boy dressed in fine gowns and spent hours at her embroidery.
Yet Montcrief was too old, and although Marietta loved him it was more the love she would give to a dear uncle or friend. However, she had never thought of betraying him…except for once or twice at the start, when the picture of a handsome Englishman had popped into her head as she lay beside her husband.
It was nearly five years since the day she had almost been trampled beneath the hooves of that horse. Marietta sometimes wondered where Anton of Gifford was, and what he had done in all those years. She imagined him living on a fine estate in England. She knew that the countryside was beautiful there for her mother had told her. Baron Villiers had married an English lady of great beauty but little fortune. Jane, Lady Villiers, had been a sweet lady, and had taught her daughter much before she died.
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.
Last came the wrestling. No one had ever beaten the Bastard of Rouen at wrestling. A hush fell over the crowd as the master of ceremonies stood up.
‘It has been decided that the contest shall be settled by three bouts between the Bastard of Rouen and Anton…’
Marietta gasped as she heard the announcement. Her gaze flew to the Bastard’s face. She saw the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes and knew that he was confident of winning this contest. She sat back, feeling that she could not bear to watch, for she did not wish to see Anton humbled. He was such a worthy champion, and she guessed that the Bastard meant to humble Anton if he could.
As the contest began, Marietta closed her eyes. She was sure that the Bastard would do his best to cripple or injure his opponent. Once she had seen a man suffer a broken arm, and she could not bear to see Anton hurt in this way. She was so tense that she thought she might faint.
Hearing the gasp of astonishment and a new buzz of excitement, Marietta opened her eyes to see that Anton had taken the first fall. Her gaze fell on the Bastard. She was shocked by the look of hatred in the man’s narrow-set eyes. He looked as if he would like to murder Anton!
Her heart beating wildly, Marietta sat forward to watch. The Bastard had never been beaten in this contest. Surely Anton could not best him again? She turned her nails into her hands as the two men came to grips. The Bastard was so strong, and he seemed to have Anton in his grip. He must win this time!
It happened so quickly that Marietta scarcely realised what had occurred. One moment the Bastard seemed to have Anton in an unbreakable hold, the next he was lying face down in the dirt, his arm twisted behind him and unable to move.
Wild cheers broke from the watching crowd. The nobles were on their feet applauding, the ladies threw scarves and flowers to the champion. A hush fell as the master of ceremonies stood up and announced Anton as the winner of the silver arrow.
Marietta’s husband stood up. It was his privilege to present the prize to the winner. She was shocked when he turned to her, presenting the silken cushion with the arrow.
‘Take it, Marietta,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Today my wife will present the winner with his trophy.’
Marietta hesitated, then picked up the arrow and went down the steps to where Anton was standing. She smiled as he made her an elegant bow, and a thrill went through her as she saw the gleam of triumph in his eyes. He might not recall the day he had saved her life, but he had been her champion since that time and she was delighted that he had won this prize.
‘You were a worthy winner, sir,’ she said. ‘I am proud to give you the silver arrow.’
‘I thank you, my lady,’ Anton said, inclining his head. For a moment his gaze intensified as he looked at her, but no flicker of recognition showed in his eyes. ‘I am honoured.’ He turned and showed the arrow to the crowd, bowing as they cheered him.
Marietta turned to leave. She put her foot on the first step leading back to the benches where she had sat with her ladies, and then suddenly a dog came rushing towards her from nowhere. It was a huge fierce hound with a brindle coat, and his mouth was drawn back in a snarl. A scream left her lips as the hound sprang at her for no reason, sending her to the ground. Putting up her arms to protect herself, she felt its teeth graze her flesh, and then someone was there, pulling the hound away from her, whipping it with the flat of his sword. The sound of its howling as it fled from the angry avenger was terrible.
‘Lady, are you hurt?’
Half fainting, blood trickling from the wound to her arm, Marietta felt herself lifted in strong arms. She was being carried away from the scene. Dimly aware that it was the champion of the day who had saved her from the dog, she tried to thank him.
‘I need no thanks, lady,’ he said as he strode towards a tent. ‘That beast should be destroyed. I believe it was meant to attack me, not you.’
Marietta was feeling too faint to enquire more as she was set down on a pile of soft cloaks and silks in a tent she realised must be the one the knights used to change into their armour. The man she believed to be Anton of Gifford kneeled at her side. He took her arm and examined it, his fingers firm and gentle.
‘The beast merely grazed the skin,’ he said, and poured water from a flask onto a linen cloth, bathing her arm and wiping away the blood. ‘It will hurt for a day or so but there is no real harm done.’
‘Thank you. You saved my life.’ Marietta was beginning to revive. She wanted to confirm if he were indeed the young man who had saved her life once before, but before she could say anything more the tent flap was lifted and her husband entered together with the Bastard of Rouen.
‘Marietta, are you harmed?’ the Comte asked anxiously.
‘This knight acted promptly and drove off the beast,’ Marietta told him. ‘I was faint for a while, but I am feeling much better thanks to my brave rescuer. He has bathed the wound and I believe I have taken no harm.’
‘The brute should be put to death,’ her husband said, and glanced at the Bastard. ‘It belongs to Rouen. I have told him he must get rid of it after what it did to you.’
‘’Tis a hunting dog and knows no better,’ the Bastard muttered. Marietta saw him glance resentfully at the knight who had bested him, and felt an icy shiver down her spine. He would not forget this day!
Marietta stood up. She was still trembling, but felt better. ‘I am well enough to leave now, husband.’
‘If you are sure we shall leave at once.’ Comte de Montcrief turned to Anton. ‘You have my gratitude, sir. I hope that you will allow me to repay you in some way?’
‘I did only what any knight of honour would do, sir. I am glad to have been of service and need no repayment.’
‘Then I offer you friendship. If I may be of service to you, you have only to ask.’ The Comte offered his hand and they clasped hands. He turned back to Marietta. ‘Come, my dearest, take my arm. You must tell me if you feel faint and I shall help you.’
Marietta took his arm. At the door, she turned back and smiled at the knight who had saved her for the second time.
‘Thank you, sir. I shall not forget…’
He inclined his head to her but made no answer.
Anton felt a deep satisfaction as he walked away from the field. To become the champion and save a beautiful woman from a savage dog in one day was an achievement that sat well with him.
It was mere chance that he had entered the contest at all. He had told his men to wait for him at the inn, to guard his daughter and her nurse, but it was really because he’d wished to enter the contest incognito. He had been in no mood for the knightly display of skill. Had he wielded a weapon of war, he might in his present mood have struck too hard and killed his opponent.
When he’d seen the notice announcing the contest for the silver arrow he had been intrigued and amused, intending at first to be a spectator. Then he’d seen men lining up to enter the contest and something had driven him to sign his name. As a young man he had loved sport, and he had been the champion of many a fair. He had entered on a whim, unsure that he would excel in all the contests, but the years of training and exercise in the Spanish sunshine had kept him strong.
In the first race he had suddenly felt alive in a way that he had not since Isabella’s death. The black shadows had fallen away from him as he’d sped over the course. He had run for himself alone, and he had been surprised to discover that he had been one of the winners. The feeling had exhilarated him, giving him such pleasure that he had thrown himself into the rest of the contest with gusto.
He was laughing inside, because he had never thought to win the prize and was still surprised that he had thrown the great bear of a man who called himself the Bastard of Rouen.
Anton knew that in winning the wrestling so easily he had made himself an enemy. He shrugged. What did it matter? He would be in England within a couple of days and it was unlikely he would see the man again.
A frown creased his brow as he thought about the young woman who had presented him with the silver arrow. What was her name—the Comtesse de Montcrief? He had taken little notice of her until the dog attacked her, but when he had carried her to the tent to tend her wounds he had been tantalised by the scent of her hair, which had wafted towards him. He had felt as if he should know her.
Had they met before? Anton could not think it. It was years since he had been in France and that for but a brief time…
Surely not? A vague picture came into his mind. There had been a child…a young girl he had rescued from beneath the flailing hooves of her horse.
Anton could not be certain that the beautiful woman he had helped today was the young girl he had rescued from the hooves of a terrified horse all those years ago. It was unlikely that fate should bring them together twice in similar circumstances. He struggled to bring the earlier memory to mind but the child’s face was unclear; she had been forgotten in all that came after.
Anton was fairly certain that the dog had been ordered to attack. He was the most likely intended victim, because he had humbled Rouen in a sport in which he believed himself invincible. Surely he would have no reason to want to harm the wife of the Comte de Montcrief? He frowned as he wondered if he ought to have told the Comte of his suspicions.
Why did it matter? The woman’s husband was responsible for her protection. She was the wife of a powerful man, and could mean nothing to Anton. Besides, he had no wish to marry yet. When he did it would be to a deserving widow, an older lady, someone gentle and kind who would love his motherless daughter. The suspicion that Isabella had betrayed him with another man, and that the child she had carried with her to the grave had not been his, was like a bitter taste in his mouth. She had seemed so innocent and lovely when he wed her; how could he ever trust again?
‘I have written to the Bastard,’ the Comte told Marietta the next day when he came to her as she sat sewing in her solar. ‘He disappeared after the contest and I fear he was displeased that the prize went to another. I believe I must make my offer soon. I would not have him my enemy.’
‘I did not like the way he looked at me,’ Marietta said. ‘I believe he resents me. It is very strange that his dog should attack me.’
‘The brute was out of control and has been dealt with. Rouen resents the truth, which is that you have given me a legitimate son.’ The Comte sighed. ‘I was wrong to let him believe that he would succeed me here. I should never have recognised him—but my first wife could not bear a living child and I thought I might never have an heir.’
‘Then you must make your peace with him, husband.’
‘Yes, I must.’ The Comte smiled at her. ‘You were much admired yesterday, my love. I think that we should give a feast for our neighbours soon—perhaps after the Bastard has visited us.’
‘Yes, we should…’
Marietta held her sigh inside until her husband left her. It was ridiculous to feel so unhappy. Nothing had changed just because she had seen a man she had never thought to see again.
Anton of Gifford. The years had been kind to him, for he had grown stronger and more handsome. Watching him as he won the silver arrow had made her realise all that she had lost, but had the incident with the dog not happened she would probably have found it easy to forget. The memory of him driving off the brute and tending her arm was something that would live with her for a long time. It seemed that it was her destiny to be rescued by Anton of Gifford, for she was certain in her own mind that it was he.
She shook her head. It was useless to repine. She had never had a chance of being the wife of the man she admired. She knew nothing of him other than that he was bold and strong. He might be a rogue! He had certainly not declared his true title when he entered the contest. Marietta must never think of him again. She must be satisfied with what she had, and, indeed, most of the time she was content.
It was just that she could not help wondering where Anton was now and what he was doing…
‘I am glad to be home, Father,’ Anton said as his father came down the stairs to greet him in the large hall of their home. ‘I have done all His Majesty bade me, but Spain no longer hath anything to hold me. I believe I shall do better in England.’
‘I am glad to see you home,’ the Marquis said, and his expression was grave. ‘I was sorry for your loss, my son. To lose a wife and child so young was a great tragedy.’
‘Isabella was not truly well the whole time she was carrying the babe. Her death was an accident. The physician thought that she had turned dizzy and fell down the steps leading to the sunken garden. I have grieved for her and now I have come home to begin a new life here in England. God saw fit to give us a beautiful daughter and I shall make a new life for her.’ The new lightness of mood after the contest had stayed with him and he had begun to make plans for the future. It was time to move on—to try and put the bitterness and his doubts behind him. ‘I am come to beg my mother if she will care for Madeline until I can provide a home worthy of Isabella’s daughter.’
‘You have come back to your family.’ His father was nodding and smiling. ‘I am glad of it, for I thought at one time that you might never return. You need not ask, my son. Both you and the child are welcome here until you are ready to move on.’
‘Thank you. I was sure it would be so. How is all my family, Father? Your steward told me that Mother has not been well?’
‘Catherine had a nasty chill that settled on her chest. It has pulled her down and I have been anxious for her sake. She is on the mend now and will be pleased to see you.’
‘I shall visit her at once.’
‘Stay and talk with me for a moment longer. Your sister is with her. Her women usually tend her at about this hour.’ The Marquis was thoughtful. ‘Your coming is opportune, Anton. Sarah has been with us for the birth of her child. Now that she is well, and the boy thrives, Lord Sheldon has asked that she join him at court. I would prefer not to escort her there, for I do not wish to leave your mother until I am certain she is truly recovered.’
Anton was silent for a moment. He had hoped to have some time with his family before visiting the court. It was possible that the King would have some task for him once he presented himself, and Anton was not sure that he wished to serve at court. He believed that he might prefer life as a country gentleman. However, his father had asked a favour of him and he would be churlish to refuse.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I shall be pleased to escort my sister to the court.’
‘I would not press you to wed again,’ his father said. ‘But I hope that in time you will find a lady who can make you happy, Anton. It might be that you’ll meet someone at court.’
‘I thought a kind, gentle lady—perhaps a country woman who would love and care for my daughter…’
‘Such a marriage would bring you comfort, but I am not certain it would bring happiness, my son.’
Anton made no answer. It was too difficult to explain the hurt and anger that lived inside him. He had decided that he would not look for love or passion in his next wife. However, as he left his father and went to find his mother and sister, the picture of a woman’s face was in his mind: a beautiful woman who had smiled as she gave him a silver arrow—a woman who had felt so good in his arms as he carried her to his tent.
