Lion of Languedoc (20 page)

‘Would someone
please
explain to me what is going on?'

‘With the greatest of pleasure.' Léon's hand tightened its hold on Marietta's. ‘Marietta is to be my wife.'

Jeannette struggled for strength and understanding. ‘ But so is Elise,' she managed to say at last.

‘No longer. I ride to Lancerre now to inform her of the fact. It wasn't Elise I wanted to marry, it was just a dream. And Elise will be happier without me.'

‘And Raphael?' Helplessly she turned to her son's friend. A duel between the two of them would kill her.

‘I have lost nothing, madame, since I never had it in the first place. The beautiful Marietta refused my offer of marriage when I first made it. I found the fact too incredible to believe, and so our misunderstanding. Marietta has never, at any time, agreed to become my wife, or accepted any advances I made to her.'

‘I see.' Jeannette leaned weakly back in the chair. Everything was going to be all right. Léon was going to marry Marietta, Marietta who she loved. Marietta who would run Chatonnay and bear strong, healthy children. Marietta who would continue to teach the village girls lacemaking and bring prosperity to Chatonnay. Marietta who loved her son wholeheartedly, with every fibre of her being, as she had loved Léon's father.

‘You are not angry?' Marietta asked hesitantly, filled with sudden apprehension.

‘Bless you, child,' Jeannette said, her face wreathed in smiles, ‘this is the happiest day of my life.' And she crossed to the bed, embracing her warmly.

‘I fear I can no longer keep you company,' Raphael said, ‘I have an engagement elsewhere.'

‘On the Montpellier road to meet the returning Céleste,' he could have added, but didn't. When one door closed another opened, and Céleste could play the coquette quite well when given the chance. She also had the trimmest pair of ankles he had ever seen. Perhaps if he met her on her return to Chatonnay he would be able to find out if the legs above them were also slender and delectable. The three in the room were hardly aware of his departure.

Léon swung his legs off the bed, suppressing a wince of pain. ‘You shouldn't go now,' Marietta said anxiously. ‘ You should rest.'

‘Because of a few scratches?' he asked, his smile making her heart tremble. ‘I've suffered worse many times.'

‘Then I'm glad that I did not know of it, or I would have suffered also.'

Slowly he took her upturned face in his hands and kissed it. ‘When I return we will be able to tell the whole world of our love. Goodbye, my sweet.'

The shirt he drew on had a drawstring of lace, the sleeves puffing out in three lavish layers, cuffed deeply in
point de France
lace. In future, Marietta thought with an inward smile, his clothes would be embellished with
point de Venise.
He looked once more every inch a Comte as he strode out of the room and down the stairs to the stables.

‘I think,' Jeannette said, watching from the window as he rode away, ‘that Elise will not be quite as heartbroken as Léon fears.'

‘Because of the Duke?' Marietta asked.

Jeannette smiled. ‘Because of the Duke,' she affirmed. ‘I think we should tell him of events. I think he will want to ride to Lancerre at the earliest opportunity to comfort the now free Widow Sainte-Beuve.'

Never had Léon rode so urgently to Lancerre. He had no desire to inflict pain on Elise; she had been the first love of his life, and if that love had been built on unreality it had nevertheless been precious to him, and he still felt a deep tenderness for her. But it was nothing compared to his all-consuming love for Marietta. If he had married Elise he would have caused her deep unhappiness. Their natures were so different that he could have done nothing else no matter how hard he had tried.

The knowledge gave him courage. The day had been a long one and it was approaching dusk by the time he had galloped into the familiarity of Elise's fountain-filled courtyard. He strode towards the door and was met by a grim-faced Abbé.

‘Good evening, Monseigneur.' It was a rather grand title for the grey-haired priest but it was one that gave pleasure. This time the kind face of the Abbé did not soften. He raised his hand, barring Léon's entrance. Immediately Léon halted, his stomach muscles tight.

‘What is it? Is something wrong?'

‘Madame Sainte-Beuve has been taken sick, less than an hour ago. Your friend, the Duke de Malbré, visited her and after he left she complained of tiredness and headaches. Now she has a fever and is delirious.'

‘Like Ninette Brissac?'

The Abbé nodded. ‘And many more these last few months, who have not recovered as Ninette did.'

‘Let me go to her.'

‘And catch the sickness?'

Léon gave him a look of scorn and mounted the stairs to Elise's room two at a time. The frightened housekeeper gave him entry, and the sight of the tossing, semi-conscious Elise was enough for Léon to see the seriousness of the situation. ‘Stay with her,' he said curtly. ‘ I will be back with Mademoiselle Riccardi.'

The Abbé was waiting for him by his horse. ‘ I have given her a blessing, but …' He shrugged expressively.

‘Mademoiselle Riccardi saved Ninette Brissac. She can also save Elise.'

Léon was already back in the saddle, cursing his injured chest that slowed down his movements.

The Abbé shrugged again. If his blessing did not cure Elise what could the Riccardi girl do? Ninette Brissac had obviously not been as sick as the other girls—the girls who had died. ‘The wedding guest!' he shouted after Léon. ‘ What of the wedding guest?'

Léon wheeled Saracen around, staring at him, transfixed. The little Abbé hurried forward.

‘There is a cousin already in Montpellier. He will have to be told. There can be no wedding now, my son, not for a long time. And Lancerre should have no visitors until Madame Sainte-Beuve recovers.'

‘No.' Léon's mouth was tight. He spurred Saracen, galloping as if into battle, down the dusty road towards Chatonnay. Lord of grace, but he hadn't given a thought to Céleste and Montpellier! Anything could have happened. Already the witch-hunters could be on their way for Marietta.

Saracen, sensing his master's urgency, strained himself to the limit, flanks glistening with sweat as he skidded to a stop outside his stable and Léon leapt to the ground, rushing headlong past a startled Mathilde, calling for Jeannette and Marietta at the top of his voice.

‘What on earth …' Jeannette began, as she and Marietta hurtled from their rooms.

‘Céleste! Has she returned?'

Jeannette gasped, her hand to her mouth. So much had happened; Léon's injuries, his declaration of love for Marietta. It had completely cast from her mind Céleste's presence in Montpellier and the danger it could bring.

‘No…'

The expression on his face frightened Marietta, and she did not understand his anxiety as to Céleste's whereabouts. ‘Elise?' she asked. ‘Did you tell Elise?'

The eyes that held hers were grim. ‘I could not. Elise is sick with fever, and if the Abbé is to be believed, close to death.'

Marietta said nothing; simply turned and began to run towards the pantry where her medicines were kept.

‘Perhaps Lancerre is the best place for Marietta at present,' Léon said to his mother, his mind racing. ‘She will nurse Elise. No one on earth could prevent her from doing so, even if they tried. Meanwhile, I will ride for Montpellier and Céleste.'

Jeannette licked dry lips. ‘And if Céleste has spoken thoughtlessly?'

‘Then the world will be shorter of witch-hunters, for I swear before God I'll kill every last one of them before they even so much set eyes on Marietta again!'

As he spoke he buckled his sword. Jeannette felt fear rise in her like a tide and tried to subdue it. Léon was no boy. He was a man, a soldier, the warrior of Louis' forces. The legendary Lion of Languedoc. She was behaving faintheartedly. She struggled to smile.

‘God go with you,' she said.

He marched past her, drawing on his gauntlets. ‘ Tell Marietta what has happened and why I have left. She has the courage to understand. Tell her to stay at Lancerre until I come for her.'

Then he was gone, this time riding a fresh horse, the noise of its hooves bringing Marietta running into the yard in bewilderment.

‘He has ridden for Montpellier,' Jeannette said, hurrying towards her. ‘Céleste left early this morning to greet one of Elise's wedding guests, and Léon is afraid that she will chatter and be overheard. He was on his way there when you were attacked by the wolf.'

‘I see.' Marietta's eyes were anguished, not with fear for herself but for Léon. She knew to what extent he would go to protect her.

‘He told me to tell you to stay at Lancerre. Not even a witch-hunter will visit if they know there is sickness there.'

‘If Elise is as sick as Ninette was, I have no other choice, but to stay with her,' Marietta said quietly. She had all she needed in her basket. She felt suddenly tired, emotionally drained. Why, oh why, did Elise have to fall sick at this precise moment?

She lifted her head. Elise
was
sick and only she, Marietta, could save her. Summoning all her strength, she walked out to where a horse waited, already saddled by the beaming Armand. Kitchen gossip had already seen to it that he knew who his future mistress was to be.

‘Why so glum?' he asked, as for once Marietta allowed herself to be helped into the saddle. ‘Madame Sainte-Beuve will recover, just as Ninette did.'

Marietta smiled weakly. ‘I pray so, Armand.'

It seemed to take for ever to reach Lancerre, and all the way Marietta's thoughts were with Léon. Céleste had been in Montpellier for the whole of the day. There had been plenty of time for her to have chattered about Marietta's presence at Chatonnay, and if the ears of the black-robed Inquisitor should hear, or the bejewelled young man who had visited her grandmother, then there would be no future happiness with Léon. She had had plenty of time to think these last few days as she had sewed Elise's wedding gown, and now at last she knew why she was being hunted down, why her grandmother had been burned. Against such an enemy even Léon's courage would be powerless.

At last the Sainte-Beuve home, almost covered in moss and ivy, showed ahead of her. The servants greeted her with relief. They had heard of Ninette Brissac's recovery, and if this red-haired stranger could do the same for their mistress, then she would be doubly welcome. Marietta walked quickly through the rooms towards the staircase. The walls were covered with Bergamot tapestries, the Spanish leather chairs ornately gilded, heavy curtains of rich velvet at the windows. Elise enjoyed luxury. She would be happier with the Duke at Versailles than she would ever have been at Chatonnay with Léon.

‘I would like bowls of lukewarm water,' Marietta said authoritatively to the housekeeper. ‘ Nothing else.'

While the housekeeper hurried away to do her bidding, Marietta crossed to Elise's bedside and, holding her as tenderly as she would a child, poured the carefully-prepared medicine down her throat. Elise protested feverishly, trying to turn her head away, her eyes glazed and showing no recognition of Marietta.

Marietta's hold tightened. She pressed Elise's head against her breast, holding it tightly until she had protestingly swallowed a sufficient amount of the mixture. Then the housekeeper was back with the water and at Marietta's nod of dismissal, scurried away. Prayer was the only saving from the fever, and the housekeeper meant to pray fervently; not for her mistress but for herself. She didn't want to go the way of Solange Agoult, who had died only weeks ago after suffering the same symptoms as Madame Sainte-Beuve.

Alternately, Marietta sponged Elise's fevered body and gave her the medicine. The hours passed, and still Elise did not recognise her. She did not even know that she was in her own bed and at Lancerre.

‘The Queen!' she cried again and again as she flung the sheets off her fevered body. ‘The Queen wants me! I'm to be a lady-in-waiting. I must go now! Immediately! The Queen awaits!'

With tireless patience Marietta continued to sponge her with a constant supply of lukewarm water, press the bottle of medicine to her lips, waiting for any sign that the fever was about to breaks. It did not. By dawn Elise was worse, tearing at her nightdress, the hair that usually glistened in such pretty ringlets now damp and dishevelled.

Dawn broke, and still Marietta had not slept and still Elise raved about Versailles. About her position there; her carriages; her jewels. Not once in her delirium did she call Léon's name.

The sun rose and Marietta felt faint and dizzy. She wanted sleep; a rest. Yet she could not while Elise hovered between life and death. Through the closed door the housekeeper told her that the Abbé was downstairs, and that the Duke of Malbré had arrived. But there was no news of Léon. Was he still in Montpellier? Or Chatonnay? Or—Marietta's heart seemed voluntarily to cease to beat—was he dead? Killed, acting in her defence against an evil that he knew nothing of?

‘Maurice! Cousin Maurice!'

The name roused Marietta. Who was Maurice? She wiped Elise's sweating brow with a sponge soaked in camomile.

‘Cousin Maurice says my position is at court! He will take me there! To the Queen as a lady-in-waiting. Oh, where is Maurice?'

She buried her head in the pillow in a frenzy, and Marietta breathed an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. No longer did Elise believe herself to be at Versailles. She knew she was still waiting to go. No doubt Maurice was the wedding guest already in Montpellier. She took Elise's hand.

‘The Duke is here,' she said. ‘He is most anxious for your health, Elise.'

The restless body stilled and then the wild blue eyes sought the door and she cried out, ‘ Léon. Is Léon here?'