Song of the Heart (Medieval Runaway Wives Book 1) Read online

  “Ah, Mon Dieu. Give me the cup,” he snarled.

  Thank you, Sweet Jesu. Madeleine sent her own grateful prayer to God. She reached for the drink sitting on the bedside table and placed the pewter cup into her husband’s hands.

  “I was able to mix your medicine with a little wine. Hopefully, that will hide the medicinal taste. I’m sure the wine, too, will help settle your stomach.”

  Henri took a swig of the brew, his mouth creasing with disgust. He did, however, finish the contents of the cup. Escape would have been impossible otherwise.

  “Disrobe me,” he ordered.

  Madeleine complied, glad it would be the last time she saw his pasty flesh. Though her husband was extremely thin from eating sparsely, his belly, round and bloated, protruded from his almost skeletal frame. She credited that to all the champagne he drank. If she never tasted the frothy wine again, it would be too soon, for it would always remind her of Henri.

  She helped him into the bed and quickly covered his pale skin with the linen sheets then walked quietly to the other side and slipped under the covers. She was thankful Henri did not speak. She was too tense, her nerves too raw. Soon, his breathing slowed and deep snores filled the chamber.

  It was time.

  She crept from the bed and quietly dressed. Her fingers trembled as she slipped on her smock, kirtle, and cotehardie. Thanks to the number of jewels she had sewn into her garments’ hems, the clothing was quite heavy. Henri had always lamented that she was useless at any of the womanly arts—sewing tapestries, supervising the household, or having babies.

  That thought brought her pain. When she married Henri three years earlier, she’d longed for babies and knew her husband was eager to have a son who would inherit the de Picassaret vineyards one day. She had imagined filling the chateau with many sons and daughters, hearing their laughter, teaching and loving them as her own devoted parents had done for her and her brother.

  After she saw what life with Henri would be like, she hungered for babies even more. Though it might seem selfish on her part to want to bring a child into the world whose father was a monster, Madeleine had abundant love in her heart to give to little ones—but it was not to be. Just like her husband’s two previous wives, she was barren. But throughout the last year she had harbored wicked thoughts concerning this and had foolishly voiced them to Henri one night. She accused him of being the barren one, his seed worthless in her womb.

  She had paid dearly for those rash words. Henri had beaten her many times before, for even the smallest infraction, but that night was different. Usually, he only abused her back or legs, not wanting to mar what the world saw. This time, he struck her face repeatedly until her eyes had swollen shut. She also now carried a small scar at the top of her cheekbone, courtesy of his signet ring—and uncontrollable rage. Worst of all, he’d broken her knee in the vicious attack. As a result, she now walked with a slight limp.

  Madeleine pushed aside the painful memories. It was obvious Henri grew tired of her. She wasn’t the young, malleable girl and hadn’t produced an heir. Instinct told her that her life was in danger. She didn’t believe his previous wives’ deaths were accidents. The opportunity to escape her nightmarish existence might never present itself again.

  She crossed the chamber and reached for her lute, the one possession she valued above all others. She refused to leave the beloved instrument behind. Retrieving the rope from its hiding place under the bed, she stood and took one last look at her sleeping husband. No love filled her heart, no honor, nor loyalty. Henri had beaten any feeling she’d ever had for him out of her long ago.

  She made her way hastily through the dim corridor and down the staircase. Fortunately, the layout of Frothmore was simple. In this time of peace, the sally port outside remained unguarded. Reaching it, though, would take every bit of courage she possessed. She couldn’t leave using the entrance to the keep, knowing Lord Ancil had a handful of men guarding the door on the outside. Instead, she would escape from a small window she’d located upon their arrival and head toward the sally port—and freedom.

  Reaching it, the chill of the night air struck her. She realized she’d left her cloak in the bedchamber and regretted her carelessness. Still, she’d rather catch her death of cold than remain with Henri one more night. Escape must occur now, in this moment.

  She placed her lute on the ground and first wrapped the rope around and then knotted one end of it to the heavy, ornamental wall sconce nearby, praying it would hold her weight. She lowered the rest of the length through the window. It disappeared into the darkness. For a moment, Madeleine clasped the rope but didn’t move. Heights terrified her but she must conquer her fear. She quelled the rising nausea as her stomach roiled and prayed for God to keep her safe.

  She released the rope and, looping a scarf through her girdle, she swept it under the strings of her lute, tying the instrument securely to her waist. Once again, she gripped the rope and climbed up and through the window, grateful she was slender since it was so narrow. She only had a short distance to go and squeezed her eyes shut as she lowered herself. When her feet touched the ground, she expelled the breath she’d held. Only then did she dare open her eyes.

  “Thank the Christ,” she murmured, trying to calm her racing heart.

  Skirting buildings and staying in the shadows as much as she could, Madeleine finally reached the wall that surrounded Frothmore and moved close against it so she wouldn’t be spotted, knowing the posted sentries watched for activity outside the walls and not from within. She made her way to the north side, toward London. Once she arrived in the city, she’d pawn enough jewels to purchase passage back to France. She would return to Bordeaux and her parents, if only for a short while.

  Henri had allowed no contact with her parents since their marriage. He said she was immature and too dependent upon them and that she must learn to rely only upon him. Madeleine later learned he’d told her parents the break was at her request. She could only guess at the heartbreak his cruel words caused.

  She was determined to see her Maman and Papa once more and tell them how very much she loved them before she took refuge in a convent. She was sure Pierre could arrange sanctuary for her. Her brother was ten years older and though they’d never been close, Madeleine knew she could count on him to help her in a time of crisis. Let Henri have the marriage annulled or, better yet, let him divorce her. She did not care to give herself to any man ever again. The marriage act only brought terror. Pain and degradation. She could no longer tolerate it. She’d seek refuge and peace with the good sisters. Her jewels would assure her of a place in the convent until her death.

  Madeleine found the almost hidden door she was searching for and slipped through it. A sally port could be overlooked during a siege due to its size. Messengers used it in times of trouble. Many a sally port had been the saving grace for a castle’s people during times of attack.

  It would be her saving grace tonight.

  As she cautiously crept away from the wall surrounding Frothmore, she watched over her shoulder for any sentry that might raise the alarm. With each step, fear enveloped her, causing her heart to pound, its loud drumming ringing in her ears.

  Madeleine saw a guard move along the wall walk and gaze in her direction. She froze. Panic poured through her at being out in the open. Every muscle screamed for her to flee yet she pushed her fear aside. Movement would attract his attention. She remained stock still, holding her breath. The brisk wind favored her. The clouds blew constantly across the light from the moon, causing many shadows to dance upon the earth. She watched the sentry turn, his back now to her. Without hesitation, Madeleine made for the nearest trees at a steady gait. She reached the copse and entered without hearing a shout to halt.

  Safe. She was safe.

  She sank to her knees. A thrill rushed through her. She touched the ground almost reverently, brushing her fingers along the cool grass.

  Freedom!

  She could not remember the last
time she’d been outside alone. Henri had a guard follow her wherever she went. He rarely allowed her outside the walls of his isolated chateau in the north. Madeleine breathed in the crisp air, reveling in the sounds of the night. She was practical, though, and knew her sojourn would be a long one. She must put distance between her and Frothmore before the sun rose and she was discovered to be missing.

  Keeping to the edge of the woods, she finally reached the road north and began walking as swiftly as her knee would allow. After a mile or so, she began humming, softly at first, but with each step the volume grew. Madeleine relished her newfound liberty on the dark road to London. She thought it best to travel at night since almost all travelers would move during the day. She also would need to steal food along the way, and this would be better accomplished under cover of darkness. She didn’t know how far London lay ahead but surely she could manage for a few days in this manner.

  As Madeleine continued, she began to sing. Music had always been a large part of her life. She had been thankful that Henri allowed her to play. It was the one thing she did in which he’d found no fault. While she sang, Madeleine thought of Yves, the troubadour that had showed up at her parents’ home long ago to entertain guests. He sang for his supper that night and had never left Chateau Branais. Through the years, Yves become part of their family, teaching Madeleine all she knew about music. He’d told her she was the most gifted songbird in all of France.

  She smiled, remembering Yves’ praise, knowing she was fortunate to hear a song but once and the melody became engraved on her heart. It allowed thousands of songs to be locked into her memory. Yves regretted that she could not go out as a troubadour but everyone knew that the troubadours of France were always men.

  Still, Madeleine used to entertain her parents and visitors that had come to the Bordeaux vineyard they managed for the wealthy English Stanbridge family. Henri had been one of the many visitors who came to discuss the grape. Obsession with the grape was a national pastime in France. Her father, Robert, thought Henri had good business sense and admired the wines the older man produced. When Henri asked for Madeleine’s hand in marriage, her father had acquiesced.

  Her mother was not as certain. It had been a love match for Cadena from the first time she’d seen Robert. She had wanted that for her only daughter, as well. She’d tried to persuade her husband to let Madeleine marry someone closer to her own age, even an Englishman. Cadena herself had been an English bride come to France and she raised Madeleine so that she was fluent in both languages of her parents.

  Robert refused, knowing Madeleine would never have the opportunity to marry as wealthy a man as Henri de Picassaret. Yes, the man had bad luck with wives—one had died of a fever and the other was rumored to have taken her own life—but his daughter was young and strong and could give Henri many sons.

  As her trek continued, Madeleine untied her lute, which continued to bump against her. She didn’t mind carrying the instrument. After an hour, she began to experience some discomfort. She shifted her boot and forced herself onward. After a few steps, the problem returned. She halted and held her foot out in front of her, rotating her ankle. Feeling better, she started down the road again. Whatever it was began bothering her immediately.

  Frustrated, she sat down in the middle of the road, her lute next to her, and removed the leather boot. She stuck a finger inside, feeling around for what irritated her foot, and grasped a tiny rock. She clucked her tongue at the culprit of her distress, holding the pebble up in the moonlight for further inspection.

  “I think I shall call you Henri, little pebble, for being the source of all my discomfort.” She tucked the smooth stone into her pocket, determined to let it be a reminder to her in the future of the troubles she’d escaped.

  Madeleine started to sing a tender ballad that reminded her of her parents as she slipped her boot back on. When she’d married Henri, she assumed love would grow quickly between her and her wedded husband, just as it had for her parents. The song died on her lips at the thought.

  Oh, how she had been proven wrong.

  Chapter Two

  Stanbury

  Garrett paced restlessly as Lyssa opened a gift from her grandmother. His daughter was five years of age today. It was the fourth birthday his wife had missed.

  The thought of Lynnette brought a quick sting to his eyes. Aggravated, he turned away from the assembled group in the great hall and took a long pull of the mulled wine, draining the cup in one swallow.

  Lynnette.

  His insides ached just thinking her name. He still could not guess, even after so long a time, why she left with another man. Theirs had been an arranged marriage, like most of his class and rank, but a genuine affection existed between them. Or so he’d thought. They laughed at the good times and had cried together when their son, Richard, succumbed to a fever shortly before his second birthday.

  Still, they had little Lyssa, barely six weeks old at the time of her brother’s death. Garrett assumed they would have many more children but he’d been proven wrong. Lynnette’s unexpected disappearance put an abrupt end to that. Though he’d ridden out for weeks on his own in search of his wife, she seemed to have vanished without a trace. Finally, he could no longer hide from the truth. His wife had deserted him and their daughter for her lover.

  Garrett spat upon the floor in disgust, angry at himself for still caring about her. At times, his marriage didn’t seem real. He could barely remember what Lynnette looked like, and then he would catch a glimpse of her in Lyssa and memories of Lynnette would come flooding back.

  Ashby rose from the party of merrymakers, a thoughtful look upon his face. Garrett knew his childhood friend worried about him. It was true Garrett had lost his sense of humor these past few years and was in a black mood more often than not. His fits of depression could last for days, even weeks, and it was becoming harder and harder to rouse himself from his gloom.

  Garrett poured another glass of wine and drank the contents in a single swallow, his eyes daring Ashby to say anything. Before, his drinking had been of little consequence. In fact, he usually became quite lighthearted when he partook in a few cups of wine. Now, the more he drank, his mood turned ugly to hateful.

  Lyssa squealed in delight, drawing her father’s attention. “Oh, Papa, Papa! Come here, Papa!”

  Garrett set his cup down and went to her, a smile upon his face. Despite everything, he always tried to be a good father to his only child. He was a family man at heart and relished the times when he pulled Lyssa into his lap and listened to her prattle on in the engaging way she had about her.

  “What is it, Lyssa?”

  “Look at what Aga made me,” she said excitedly.

  Garrett took the doll Lyssa handed him and glanced toward his mother. Edith gave him a tentative smile, wary of her son’s mood. He’d been curt to her—to all women—since Lynnette abandoned her family. Part of it was not knowing where his wife had gone. Part came from knowing he could not marry again and beget an heir for Stanbury. He had soured on all women, not understanding how a wife could desert her husband and babe. The bitterness threatened to swallow him up at times.

  Yet he knew his mother could not be blamed for Lynnette’s transgressions. He studied the doll his mother had thoughtfully made for his daughter. He decided he must show his mother more kindness in the future. She had suffered far too much in the past for him to add to her misery.

  Garrett asked Lyssa, “Did you thank your grandmother properly?”

  His daughter shrugged, her characteristic shyness taking over. Garrett swept her into his arms and swung her around, then tossed her in the air several times. Lyssa laughed until she had trouble catching her breath.

  He set her back down on the ground and whispered into her ear, “Go on, Lyssa, and thank Aga.”

  Lyssa skipped to her grandmother, pecked her on the cheek, and then threw her arms around the old woman, bringing tears to Edith’s eyes.

  “Off to bed with you,” Garr
ett told his daughter. He motioned for Annie, her nurse.

  Protesting, Lyssa informed him, “I’m five now, Papa. I don’t want to go to bed so early.”

  He kissed her brow. “When you are a score and five, I’ll still tell you when it’s time for bed.” He gently nudged her in Annie’s direction.

  Lyssa left reluctantly, dragging her feet, as Garrett turned to Ashby. “I have some papers to look over. It will take me no more than an hour or so to do them justice. Will you ride with me to London afterward?”

  Ashby nodded. “I’m happy to do so. You are to meet with Henri de Picassaret tomorrow?”

  “Nay, not until the day after, but I’ve business to see to before that. I don’t look forward to the meeting with de Picassaret, though.”

  “Why?” Ashby asked.

  “I’ve dealt with the man before. He’s very astute and drives a hard bargain. He’s offered for some of my properties in Bordeaux in exchange for some of his land near Reims.”

  Ashby was perplexed. “You are interested in champagne vineyards?”

  “No, but we’ve done some business in the past. It’s more a courtesy to see him and hear him out. I’ve learned in business it’s never good to alienate someone.”

  “Then see to your papers, Garrett. I’ll make sure our horses are ready.”

  *

  It was closer to two hours before the two men got on the road. Garrett inhaled the April night air, chilly and fresh, his head bothering him again. The headaches had started shortly after Lynnette’s disappearance and came upon him with no warning. Sometimes lasting a few hours, sometimes a few days, they were becoming more frequent in their arrival and duration. The pain was so great at times that he wondered if he was going mad.