Lion of Languedoc (7 page)

‘My mother—is she awake?'

There was a chuckle. ‘Aye, ever since we heard the news. Your cousin Céleste is here too, all of a twitter at your returning from court.'

For the first time the man became aware of Marietta sitting quietly on her horse, and his mouth dropped open in amazement. Léon turned in the saddle, looking at her carelessly.

‘Madamoiselle Riccardi. She's in temporary need of shelter.'

‘She's in temporary need of clothes, you rogue!' Armand Brissac said, delighting in Léon's impudence at bringing his whore to Chatonnay with him. That would set the cat among the pigeons! He punched him hard on the shoulder.

‘It's good to have you back, Léon. The place has been a morgue without you.'

Marietta seethed silently at Léon's offhand manner of introducing her as Léon's father led the horses at a walk, the lantern bobbing in his hand. For a few minutes she thought they were entering a wood, and then realised it was an avenue of plane trees and at the end was a château, lit by so many lamps that it looked like a castle in a fairytale. Corner turrets rose ethereally in the moonlight, and there was a drawbridge and a moat, pale with water-lilies.

She felt an icy knot of apprehension in the pit of her stomach. This wasn't what she had expected and she felt suddenly nervous and unsure of herself.

‘Léon! It's Léon!'

A young girl with glistening dark curls and sparkling eyes rushed into his arms as the two men dismounted and entered the château. Behind her two serving maids nudged each other and giggled as Léon swung the satin-clad figure round in his arms, and then strode through the open doors and into a room rosy with firelight.

Marietta dismounted reluctantly, feeling she was leaving her only friend behind as she patted her horse's neck and followed Léon across stone flags and into the château. The serving maids stopped their giggling and stared at her, round-eyed. Marietta was aware that not only were her feet bare, but they were dirty as well. She moved a hand up to her bodice, gathering together the tattered material and striving to make herself more respectable. Damn Léon! Where was he? At any minute the master of the château would see her and demand that she leave.

Whispering excitedly together the girls hurried in the direction of a flight of stairs, no doubt to report her presence to the
châtelaine.
Through the open door that Léon and his father had disappeared into Marietta glimpsed the dull red and blue of tapestries and the gleam of silver on a wooden dresser. Above her head a chandelier shone brightly so that she could not even disguise her disreputable appearance by standing in the shadows. She could hear a feminine voice welcoming Léon, soft and full of love. His mother, or was Elise here too?

Panic engulfed Marietta. Any minute now she would be a laughing stock. Léon had no right to bring her to such a fine place without warning her first. If his father worked for a Duc, the least he could have done was told her so, or to have lent her his cloak again. A young man in a leather jerkin and with unkempt hair stepped into the entrance hall and leered at her appreciatively. Marietta had stood enough. Léon had forsaken her: she was a fool to have come where she was not wanted.

With a pain in her chest like a knife, she ran out into the darkness. Stable boys had taken Saracen away, and ahead of her the avenue of trees rustled and soughed in the night air. Summoning all her courage, Marietta raced across the drawbridge and plunged into the terrifying blackness. She could hear shouts behind her; the sound of a man's voice calling for her to stop. She was overcome by exhaustion. She was back again in the forests of Evray, running for her life from the maddened witch-hunters. Her heart pounded, the trees cast grotesque shapes across her path, making her veer and stumble.

‘Marietta! Marietta!'

The sound dinned in her ears. Marietta! Marietta Riccardi! Witch!
Witch!

He was behind her now, only inches away. Once again she saw the flames leaping against the night sky, and then his hand caught hold of her and at his touch she screamed in fear, collapsing in a senseless heap at his feet.

Léon picked her up and carried her back into the light and warmth of the château.

‘Poor girl,' his mother said as he strode with her through the room and towards the stairs. ‘She must have been frightened out of her wits to run away like that.'

‘She screamed just like Jacques' rabbit did when a fox got him,' Céleste said, eyeing the unconscious Marietta curiously.

‘She's no rabbit,' Léon said curtly. ‘She's braver than you'll ever be,' and as Céleste gasped at the uncalled-for rebuke, he carried Marietta upstairs.

‘Run for Mathilde,' his mother said to Céleste. ‘ Léon will be undressing the girl and putting her in her shift himself!'

Armand Brissac grinned to himself-from the doorway: his mistress disapproved of her son's womanising reputation. For Léon's sake he hoped that Mathilde was slow at obeying the order. Undressing that red-haired chit would be an enviable task. Grinning broadly to himself, he went back to the stables and the horses.

Léon laid Marietta on the huge four-poster bed and looked down at her in concern. She showed no sign of returning to consciousness. He poured water from a pitcher at the bedside, and holding her head gently tipped the glass against her lips.

His mother entered the bedchamber with Mathilde, her eyes widening. Tenderness was not a virtue she associated with her roistering son, but there was no other word to describe the expression on his face as he looked down at the dishevelled girl in his arms.

Reluctantly Léon left Marietta's side as Mathilde took over, his mother waiting pointedly until Léon had gone before allowing Mathilde to remove the mud-spattered rags that served as Marietta's clothes. She had no doubt it was a task Léon could have accomplished expertly himself, but he was at Chatonnay now, not in the debauched court of the King.

Marietta's eyes flickered dazedly open as her gown was removed and a clean nightdress slipped over her head and shoulders. She protested weakly and a soothing voice said:

‘There, my dear. There's nothing to worry about. Have a sip of verbena tea and then a long sleep, and you'll be bright as a lark in the morning.'

Marietta doubted it. Her head was spinning and every muscle in her body ached. The lady speaking so kindly to her wore a dress of soft wool, the long sleeves cuffed with fine lace. Chantilly lace, Marietta thought as she sank back against the soft pillows and closed her eyes. And hadn't she seen that face before? Only the expression in the amber eyes hadn't been one of kindness, but of mocking contempt.

‘She's asleep,' Mathilde said unnecessarily.

Jeannette de Villeneuve set the verbena tea to one side and gazed down at Marietta much as her son had done earlier. ‘She's a pretty girl,' she said reflectively. ‘I wonder who she is?'

‘No doubt we'll know soon enough,' Mathilde said, picking up Marietta's dress in her big peasant hands. ‘ The only place for these is the fire.' She laughed. ‘Saints alive, what a pair they must have looked! A good job their road didn't take them past Lancerre.'

A faint frown creased Jeannette de Villeneuve's brow, not at Mathilde's freedom of speech but at the thought of her future daughter-in-law. She chased it away. Léon was strong-willed and headstrong but he had always shown sound judgment. She should be grateful enough he was finally marrying, and not finding fault with his bride-to-be! If Elise Sainte-Beuve was Léon's choice then she, Jeannette, would do all she could to make her welcome at Chatonnay.

If the young lady in question wanted to be made welcome at Chatonnay. Jeannette had heard otherwise, but rumours in a small village were always rife and not to be trusted. She should have more sense than to listen to them. Already the servants' quarters would be agog at the news that Léon had returned with a barefoot and exhausted girl as companion. As to her running from the château and Léon chasing after her like a man demented, no doubt it would be spoken of for leagues around that the Lion had returned with a captive wench. A smile curved her lips as she returned to the drawing-room. Whatever the rumours, they would soon reach Lancerre, and Léon would have a hard task soothing the ruffled feathers of the beautiful widow Sainte-Beuve.

‘Who is she?' she asked her son when they were finally left alone and Céleste, quickly recovering from her hurt at Léon's words, had tired of stories of Versailles and gone to bed.

Léon had already decided that in Marietta's interests the truth about her flight from Evray was best kept secret. But not where his mother was concerned. He stretched his long legs out to the roar of flaming logs, a flagon of wine in his hand, his eyes dark as he stared into the flames.

‘Her name is Marietta Riccardi, and she's a lacemaker.'

His mother remained quiet, stitching at her embroidery, waiting for him to continue.

‘I found her in Evray. The fools there thought she was a witch and were hunting her down to burn.'

His mother gave a gasp of horror, her embroidery falling to her lap.

‘And that's not all,' Léon said, his face an impassive mask. ‘ They had already burned her grandmother by the time I found her.'

‘Blessed Jesu,' Jeannette whispered, crossing herself. ‘No wonder the poor girl was senseless with fear and exhaustion.'

‘Don't you want to know if the old woman
was
a witch?' he asked curiously.

‘No, I need to know nothing other than that she needs rest and sanctuary.'

‘It's only fair to tell you that the old woman
did
have an uncommon knowledge of herbs and medicines,' he said, rising to his feet.

‘So does Mathilde, and she's not a witch.'

Léon wondered whether to mention that Marietta's grandmother had believed herself able to protect people from poison and that it was this belief that had finally led to her death, and to the persistent hunting of Marietta. He decided against it. It was best never referred to. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder. ‘What I have told you is between you and me. I want no hysterical reports of witchcraft in Chatonnay.'

‘No.' Jeannette rose to her feet. ‘I'm going to bed now. I'm not as young as I used to be and I tire quickly,' and then, as she reached the foot of the stairs. ‘It's nice to have you home, Léon.'

He stood in front of the fire, legs apart as he watched her climb the stairs to the gallery. In his first rush of pleasure at being home he hadn't noticed how much she had changed. Her mouth was still as soft and gently smiling as when he had been a boy, but her skin had taken on a translucent texture, the once thick auburn hair was streaked with white, and he noticed that the effort of climbing the stairs made her breathe heavily, and that instead of running up them like a young girl as she had done when he was last home, she moved slowly as if with great effort.

The sooner Elise and he were married the better, he thought. Elise would be able to take the burdens off his mother's shoulders. Only hours now until they were together and already she would have his ring on her hand. He had sent it with the fastest messenger he could find while he had waited in a fever of impatience for Louis' permission to leave court.

A log tumbled on to the hearth and Léon pushed it back with the toe of his boot. There would be no nonsense about waiting for a suitable period of mourning before he married her. The debauched mayor of Lancerre deserved no mourning. They would be married before the week was out. He drank the flagon of wine and made his way to bed, enjoying its softness after two nights spent on the road. His mother had slipped a small sachet of lavender between his sheets to scent them. Léon had to throw it savagely from the window before he could banish the unfaithful vision of Marietta next to him in the vast bed and think instead of his bride-to-be.

When Marietta awoke she was in a strange room in a comfortable four-poster bed, and wearing a nightdress that she had never seen before. She jumped from the bed in alarm and ran to the window. The vast avenue of trees that had haunted her dreams stretched out before her. She pressed a hand to her temples as memory flooded back. Léon's father was a gatekeeper or servant at a château and it was here that Léon had brought her. She glanced around the room in panic, seeing the canopied bed and ivory brushes and combs on the dressing table. What was she doing here, and who had removed her gown? Her cheeks burned as she thought of the obvious answer.

There was a light knock at the door and the satin-clad girl who had rushed into Léon's arms entered.

‘I'm Céleste,' she announced simply. ‘I've brought you a cup of chocolate—Aunt Jeannette said you didn't drink the verbena tea last night, and I'm not surprised. It's horrible stuff! Chocolate is much nicer. I've brought you two of my gowns as well. I couldn't bring any more because I haven't got many with me, I'm only here on a visit. But I brought my lawn green gown with the black velvet bodice and a lace-trimmed petticoat.' She spread her offerings on the bed. ‘There's my best pink satin as well.' A lavish gown with a
décolletée
bodice laced with ribbon followed the lawn green rather reluctantly.

‘The green one will do beautifully,' Marietta said, and was rewarded by an imperceptible sigh of relief from her benefactress.

‘Would you let me do your hair?' she asked. ‘I've never seen hair that colour before. Aunt Jeannette said it reminded her of the setting sun.'

Marietta gathered that she had been the subject of much conversation between Céleste and her aunt as the girl continued to chatter while she dressed.

The green gown and black velvet bodice fitted to perfection, the skirt looped up to show the lace petticoat underneath. It was the finest gown Marietta had worn for many years. Seeing her reflection, and how the green flattered her colouring and the bodice showed off her figure, Marietta began to regain her confidence. It was shaken abruptly when Céleste said admiringly: