Lion of Languedoc (3 page)

He reached out his arm, his fingers touching her lightly on the shoulder. This time she made no move to free herself from his touch.

‘She was good, not bad. Good. There wasn't a cottage in Evray that didn't benefit from her medicines and ointments.'

Gently Léon took her in his arms, pulling her reassuringly against his chest, stroking her hair as she cried herself into a state of exhaustion. It was a strange feeling, rather like holding a child. Léon felt a wave of tenderness and mocked himself for a fool. His gesture of comfort was costing him dear. His collar of Chantilly lace had never been intended for use as makeshift handkerchief, and he was going to look a shade less debonair in the morning.

Gradually her breathing eased, changing from harsh gasps to the deep rhythm of sleep. He eased her head from his shoulder, lying her on the straw, covering her with his cloak. Then, his body close to hers for warmth, he closed his eyes, secure in the knowledge that the scent of lavender had not been imagination but had come from her hair.

The rustle of cocks and hens woke him at dawn. Pale light seeped in from closed shutters. He opened them cautiously. The farmhouse was still quiet, which was just as well. He had no desire to explain their presence to a farmer who might be only too pleased to inform any who came looking for them that they had only recently left and were within easy distance.

There was a soft murmur as Marietta turned in her sleep. He glanced down at her and frowned. Saving her had given him the pleasure of a good fight, and her spirited rebuff of his advances the previous evening had amused him. But in the clear light of morning he wanted nothing more than to be speedily on his way to Elise, and the sleeping girl at his feet was an encumbrance he could have done without.

He nudged her gently with his foot and she awoke with a cry of fear, scrambling to her feet.

‘It's all right,' he said reassuringly. ‘ You're safe, remember?'

It took a few seconds for her memory to return: for the fear in her eyes to die. The man before her with the slight frown on his face had saved her life. He was tall, with broad shoulders and lean hips, his clothes lavishly embellished with lace, his velvet cloak lined with jewel-coloured silk. Coal-black hair hung in riotous curls to his shoulders. His nose was strong and hawk-like; the mouth that laughed so easily, firm, even harsh in repose. He looked like a man used to command. A man accustomed to getting his own way.

‘Thank you for last night,' she said, suddenly aware of her bare feet and tattered gown.

He shrugged. ‘It was nothing. A mere diversion.'

‘It may have been nothing to you, monsieur! It was my Grandmother's death to me!'

‘And nearly the death of me,' Léon returned drily. ‘ Perhaps you would favour me by wearing my cloak. As you so adamantly refused my attentions last night it seems unfair to stand before me half naked.'

Marietta glanced hurriedly down to where his eyes lingered admiringly. The blood rose in her cheeks as he threw his cloak carelessly around her shoulders.

‘A pleasant sight, mademoiselle, but not when one has been forbidden to touch.'

He was laughing at her, and Marietta was not used to being laughed at. Her eyes glittered fiercely. They were thick-lashed and a brilliant green, the corners tilting tantalisingly upwards. Her face was too small and heart-shaped for beauty, or at least the beauty that was fashionable at Versailles; it reminded Léon of a kitten he had once had when he was a boy. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek and he felt an uncontrollable urge to wipe it away.

Before he could do so there came the distant sound of hoofbeats. He froze, listening intently. The drumming hooves came nearer and the blood drained from Marietta's face.

‘Is it them?' Her eyes dilated with fear. ‘Oh, what shall we do? Where can we hide?'

Léon seized his sword and crossed hastily to the half-open shutters. He could see them clearly. Three riders, and all heading unmistakably for the farmhouse.

‘Is it them?' Marietta asked again.

‘Aye, but only one fighting man amongst them. Unless our unwitting host is a force to reckon with.'

They were near enough to distinguish now and Léon could see the reedy-voiced man he had struck such terror into the previous night and the flapping black robes of the Inquisitor. Only the third man, roughly dressed and with a massive chest showing beneath his leather jerkin, was a stranger.

Marietta stifled a sob. ‘They'll take me back to him. Back to the Inquisitor.'

At the thought of those glacial eyes in the cadaverous face Marietta's cheeks whitened so much that Léon thought she would faint with terror.

‘Then they'll not have far to take you,' he said grimly, ‘for he's not fifty yards away.'

‘Holy Mary,' Marietta's lips moved soundlessly and Léon's fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword. Three against one was acceptable odds to the man known to Louis' troops as the Lion of Languedoc.

‘Have you so little faith in me?' His eyes were bold and confident.

‘No.' The feeling of dizziness passed. She gave him a shaky smile. ‘What must we do?'

‘For the moment, wait and see what sort of support our three friends are going to receive from our host.'

They were so near now that Marietta could hear the harsh breathing of the horses. The men's voices sounded loud and clear in the barn. She froze, not daring to move an inch, terrified of rustling the straw on which they had slept. Below, on the floor of the barn, Léon's horse moved restlessly and Marietta felt as if her heart had ceased to beat.

If they could hear the horses … If they should suspect…

‘The place looks deserted, Your Honour.' The thin voice was unmistakable.

‘Deserted, my foot,' the Inquisitor said harshly. ‘Pierre Duroq has always been an idle layabout. A good whipping would soon set him to rights! Well, what are you waiting for, dolt? Knock him up. Break down the door if necessary. By the Mass, if I find he so much as gave that strumpet a drink of water I'll have two fires on Valais Hill tonight, not one!'

‘Yes, Your Honour.' Trembling visibly he did as he was bid, hammering at the door till a shutter above flew open and a bleary-eyed, red-faced man spat volubly on him.

‘What the devil do you think you're doing? Can't a decent man lie abed in his own house?' He saw the straight-backed figure of the Inquisitor and the words died on his lips.

‘We're seeking a witch, and have good reason to believe she came this way.'

‘There's been no witch here,' Pierre Duroq said hurriedly. ‘I'm a loyal, decent citizen, not a harbourer of witches.'

‘Then you'll have no objection if we search your property?'

‘None at all.' Pierre Duroq scrambled into his shirt and breeches while the Inquisitor looked speculatively around him. The barn was the only place of any substance.

Léon moved stealthily, hauling up the rickety ladder to the loft in which they had sought sanctuary.

‘But that won't stop them,' Marietta whispered.

‘Sshh.' Softly he called his horse till it stood directly beneath him. ‘Can you jump on to his back from here?' he asked quietly.

Marietta swallowed. ‘Yes. I think so. But you.…'

‘Never mind me. I have my own plans,' and the gleam in his eyes showed he was contemplating them with a measure of enjoyment. ‘ Don't move until I tell you, then jump on to Saracen and dig your heels in.'

The barn door opened, letting in a flood of pale morning light.

‘There's the horse!' the high-pitched voice quavered excitedly.

The burly figure at the Inquisitor's side drew a fine honed knife from his belt, approaching stealthily. Hardly daring to breathe Marietta watched him from her hiding-place as he kicked at the straw bales in the far recesses of the barn. The Inquisitor moved his horse slowly forward.

‘Not a thing.' The final bale was kicked over in disgust.

The inquisitor paused, his horse parallel with Léon's, eyeing the dusty floor thoughtfully. The marks where the ladder had stood showed clearly.

‘We have them,' he said softly.

Before his henchman could reach his side he raised his eyes to the loft and immediately Léon jumped.

Marietta gave a cry of alarm as the muscled figure, the knife held high, leapt forward. But Léon had landed neatly behind the Inquisitor. While the horse whinnied in fear at receiving a second rider so unceremoniously, Léon wrenched the Inquisitor's hand high between his shoulder blades, his free hand holding a knife quite as deadly as that of his adversary. And it was pointed directly at the Inquisitor's throat.

‘Not so hasty, friend. Not if you want your master here to live to see another day. Call him off.' This last remark was made to his victim, and Marietta could see the knife-blade break the flesh and a trickle of blood run down the Inquisitor's neck.

‘Do as he says.' The Inquisitor's voice was hoarse.

‘Tell him to throw the knife in the loft.'

The black-robed arm was moved another inch higher till he did as he was bid. Marietta moved hurriedly to one side as the knife flew upwards, burying itself in the straw. Feverishly she retrieved it, putting it between her teeth as Léon shouted:

‘Jump and ride like the Devil!'

‘Stop her, you fool!' the Inquisitor cried as Marietta leapt on to Saracen, showing a display of long slender legs that only Léon was in a position to appreciate.

‘If they do, you'll never live to enjoy it.'

The two men paused, Léon's previous adversary nothing loth at having a valid excuse for not showing his mettle, and Marietta dug in her heels. Saracen bolted for the open doors, knocking the terrified Pierre Duroq to the ground as he hurried to see what his unwelcome guests had found.

‘And now for a little ride,' Léon said to his captive. ‘The countryside is at its best this time of morning,' and grinning broadly, the knife still in one hand, the reins in the other, Léon dug in his spurs and galloped out into the sunlight after Marietta.

A better man would have immediately unseated him, but Léon knew the cowardice of a man who ordered others to do his torturing and burning. The stiff-backed figure in front of him remained rigid as Léon raced down over open meadows that led to the forest and the path, the gap between himself and Marietta narrowing every minute. She turned, and on seeing the black robes flying in the wind screamed in fear; then, seeing Léon's broad shoulders and the flash of steel she reined in her horse until he drew alongside her, her face radiant.

‘You did it! Oh, I thought they had killed you!'

‘It would take more than two lily-livered apologies for men and one with no brains to do that,' Léon said contemptuously.

‘You'll roast in the fires of hell for this.' The Inquisitor's finely drawn features were pinched and white, his mouth such a thin line that it had almost disappeared entirely.

‘For my sake, I hope not,' Léon replied grimly. ‘I find your company here on earth bad enough without meeting you in the Hereafter!' And he urged the horse to a gallop, the green of the trees closing in above their heads.

When he had put several miles between themselves and the farmhouse he reined in, ordering his shaking victim to dismount.

‘What are you going to do with him?' Marietta asked fearfully. ‘Kill him?'

Léon looked down at the ashen face and terrified eyes. Gone was the ice-cold authority; only the hate remained.

‘I wouldn't demean myself,' he said easily, sending the Inquisitor stumbling backwards as the toe of his yellow boot connected with the black-robed shoulder. ‘I've killed many men, but only in battle. This one isn't worthy to be called a man—let him crawl back to his hole as best he may.'

Another thrust of his boot and the Inquisitor was sent sprawling. Léon grinned across at Marietta.

‘The sooner we put some distance between us and Evray the better. What say you?' he asked as Saracen pawed the ground impatiently.

‘I say yes,' Marietta said, pushing a tangle of copper-coloured curls away from her face. Where they were going she did not know—nor did she care. She slapped Saracen's rump lightly and galloped after him down the dust-blown track.

She only looked behind her once. In the distance Valais Hill rose hazily above the sea of trees and she reined in Saracen, staring fixedly at it through a mist of tears. Léon wheeled the Inquisitor's horse around, cantering back to her. As he reached her she lifted her chin and squared her slender shoulders. The past was past. Only the future mattered.

A strong, well-shaped hand reached across and gripped hers. She squeezed it tightly, and as their eyes met she saw they were not as dark as she had previously thought, but a warm, golden brown. There was no trace of the mocking smile or lazy amusement that so infuriated her. Instead he was looking at her with understanding, and she was grateful for it.

She smiled. ‘It was one last goodbye. I shan't cry again, I promise you.'

‘For my collar's sake, I'm glad.'

Marietta looked at the crumpled lace that had been so immaculate the previous evening and a faint tinge heightened her cheeks.

‘Did I do that? I don't remember.'

‘It's no matter,' Léon said graciously, reflecting that if his valet at court had presented him with such a sad apology for adornment he would have had his hide.

‘I'll make you another one.'

‘Not like this,' Léon said as they resumed their ride. ‘This collar is of the best Chantilly lace.'

‘Anyone can make Chantilly,' Marietta said disrespectfully. ‘My grandmother was a Venetian and Venetians make the best lace in the world.'

What she said was true, and Léon was suitably impressed. The lace on his bucket-top boots had cost him a fortune. At least he need have no fears about her future. A lacemaker would always eat.