Historical Romance Excerpt

 

A long baggage train of displaced families crept through sparse woods and scattered villages of Normandy, their wagons piled high with century-old furniture, rattling clay pots, and other goods snatched in haste. Worn-out horses and oxen dragged the loads through thick mud while women and children plodded beside them in silence, their faces pale, their eyes hollow with fatigue. Along the roadside, peasants paused in their work and watched them pass.

A child’s hand stretched toward them, followed by a weak plea.

“May I have some food?”

Heads turned for a moment. Weary glances passed between the peasants as a soft murmur stirred and faded. One or two gave a faint shake of the head, but no one stepped forward. The small hand lingered in the air, empty, as the cart creaked past and the peasants bent once more to their work.

It was not indifference that held them back. King Edward and his English army had landed in France the previous summer and had given them little peace ever since. Quiet villages that had stood undisturbed for centuries were now reduced to black stumps buried in gray ash. The refugees spoke unguardedly of the English chevauchée around the campfires—burned houses, women taken, and men cut down in the fields. Other stories passed as well, about neighbors forcing doors open and stripping what little remained. Around the flames, men muttered prayers that God might strike the bandits down with thunder and lightning. But for all the grumbling, no one turned back to fight. Talk drifted from one family to another. There must be a safer place in France, they reckoned, far from English swords and, if possible, the king’s rising taxes, where a man might begin again, preferably in the same line of work.

Excited murmurs rippled through the crowd as the Château de Caen rose on the horizon, and the line pressed forward with renewed urgency. Suddenly, shouts broke out behind them. A group of riders approached refugees at full speed, their voices sharp and commanding, driving straight into the column. Men and women scattered in haste, stumbling into ditches and dragging their carts aside as the horsemen forced a path through without so much as a glance. Close behind them came a solid, heavy-built wagon drawn by a powerful pair of horses. Its massive wheels ground through the mud, sending specks of it flying behind. Loud grumbles erupted at the sound of thick Gascon accents among the riders. The anger faded almost at once when they caught sight of a young woman riding beside the wagon, whose face turned every head as she passed.

The lady drew on the reins and lifted a gloved hand, halting her companions at once. She had an oval-shaped face, a straight nose, high cheekbones, and full lips. Her large violet-blue eyes, framed by thick dark lashes, moved over the scene in front of her, lingering longer on the women and children. A rich mane of dark-blond hair was drawn back into intricate braids, partly concealed under a light veil pinned over a narrow band. She wore a yellow gown of fine wool, once bright, perhaps, now faded to something nearer straw than sunlight. The fabric fell over the back of her horse, gathering in soft folds. The rust-colored animal with large white patches stamped and shifted under her.

The young woman pulled her cloak closer when she noticed a few eyes fixed on her face.

“Marguerite, come away,” someone shrieked from inside the covered wagon.

She did not move.

“Jacque,” she called one of her companions. “What is going on?”

A burly man approached her at once. His gaunt face was framed by closely cropped black hair, while streaks of gray threaded through his beard and whiskers. Guiding his horse forward, he placed himself protectively between the young maiden and the rough crowd beyond.

“Be careful, my lady,” he said with a warm Languedoc accent. “These folk from Valognes may carry pestilence. Trouble yourself not. God will judge them in His own time.”

Marguerite directed her glance at one of the carts filled with small children. Their faces were smeared with dirt, and their eyes looked too large for their thin cheeks.

“Dear God,” she whispered.

Her eyes darted toward the wagon before she said, “Jacque, give them this.”

She untied the purse from her belt and pressed it into his hand.

The man bowed his head. “As you wish, my lady.”

A few seconds later, a shower of shining coins was thrown towards the crowd. Like a pack of hungry wolves, men and women lunged forward, scrambling in the mud for silver. Hands collided, elbows flew, and for a moment the road dissolved into a gray tangle of rags and limbs. When they pulled apart, a few clutched their coins, while others wiped blood from their mouths.

Jacque turned towards Marguerite. She gave a small nod and nudged her horse forward. As she rode on, a few heads turned after her, the bows grew lower, and more voices murmured that they would pray for her well-being and remember her before God. A few refugees remained motionless for a moment or two after the riders disappeared from view. Then voices rose again, the carts drew back into line, and the procession continued along the road.

Marguerite did not regret the coins she had given to the poor souls on the road. Well-timed acts of kindness, she had found, brought a certain satisfaction, but more importantly, they left an impression, one that might prove useful in time. Fortunes could be lost in a flash, but loyalty, once gained, endured to the end. It was a lesson she learned young.

When she was still an infant, she was placed in the household of Lady Catherine, the Countess of Aumale, in Bordeaux. The family had settled in Gascony long before relations between England and France turned hostile. By the time Marguerite was old enough to take notice, the region had grown restless with quarrels and private wars. Aumale Castle stood under siege twice during her time there. Lady Catherine often complained that her husband was either away fighting for friends or languishing in captivity until her Welsh relatives could ransom him. And when he returned, he kept long nights with his English companions, draining casks of Bordeaux and sending the servants back to the kitchens for what little food remained.

Marguerite learned what Lady Catherine could afford to teach her: music, dancing, and needlework. The rest she gathered where she could. She spent most of her time in the nursery, rocking Lady Catherine’s infants in their cradles, but the task never lasted long. By the time she grew up, her patroness had already lost seven children. Marguerite whispered prayers beside their small coffins, the scent of wax thick in the air, her fingers brushing linen drawn too tightly over still faces. After watching the first two lowered into their graves, the rest followed with a dreadful familiarity, and in time, she wept no more.

As she grew older, she made herself useful as Lady Catherine’s companion, helping her dress, sitting quietly at her side through long hours, joining her in prayer, and passing the time with embroidery or reading aloud. It was then that her fine taste began to show. She selected the best garments from the bundles of cast-off clothing, leaving the rest for the servants. She learned to arrange her hair in the latest fashion and carried herself with an ease that drew the eye. Knights visiting the Aumale household did not fail to notice the blossoming rose. When Lady Catherine caught her husband’s gaze lingering on the young girl, she decided the matter required a swift solution.

She wrote to an acquaintance, Sir Geoffrey Strutter, a recently widowed English knight then in Paris on diplomatic business. In her letter, Lady Catherine described Marguerite as “a rare French pearl awaiting the right hand to claim it.” One visit to Bordeaux was enough to make the lonely knight lose his head. Fortunately, Marguerite showed little reluctance to leave her patroness. Lady Catherine’s glances had grown sharper of late and seldom missed anything. Marguerite accepted the arrangement without hesitation, and a wedding was planned within the week.

At once, Sir Geoffrey’s family in England intervened with ruthless efficiency and put the matter to rest almost as quickly as it had begun. To spare herself further embarrassment, Lady Catherine decided to escort the girl to Caen and hand her over to her legal guardian, as though returning a basket of quinces. A small company was assembled without delay, and within days they were traveling south through Normandy, joining the weary streams of merchants, pilgrims, soldiers, and displaced families crowding the roads.

After the travelers left the refugees behind, they pressed on toward Caen. The road stretched on until, at last, they passed through the old gates of the town. Their wagon endured one last assault of violent rattling as the wheels struck the uneven cobblestones. By then, Marguerite could scarcely remain still in her saddle. Heat burned across her skin, while sweat dampened her back and caused her clothes to cling mercilessly to her body. From the streets drifted the sour reek of decomposing rubbish, mingled with the sharp tang of l’eau, a combination that turned her stomach with nausea.

As they approached their final destination, Marguerite’s guardians, Claude and Constance Payne, came into view, waiting outside their home on Rue du Marché in the affluent quarter of Île Saint-Jean. Their house bore a plain stone façade with ample windows neatly fitted with wooden shutters. A solid oak door at the entrance was functional and sturdy, its ironwork practical rather than ornate. Nothing called attention to itself: the stone was clean but unadorned, the shutters well-kept, the ironwork polished without flourish. There was nothing newly purchased, and nothing left to neglect.

When the company finally stopped, the escorting knights dismounted with audible relief, having spent the journey slowly roasting inside their armor. They stamped their feet and rolled their shoulders, as though trying to coax feeling back into their aching limbs, while Maître Payne waited, shifting from foot to foot, his gaze straying often toward the street. At the sight of the reddish-brown horse with a white patch in the shape of France, a faint smirk touched his lips. His gaze then drifted upward and met a pair of blue eyes studying him with curiosity. A slow gasp escaped his lips, and he instinctively adjusted his coat. He looked over at his wife, who was busily clucking with a servant, and back at the young woman.

Marguerite extended her gloved hand, and two knights immediately hurried forward to assist. When she stepped down, she continued to observe Maître Payne up close. Over the years, Marguerite had heard a great deal about her guardian, for Lady Catherine had never been restrained in her descriptions of him. According to her, he had a nose that detected opportunities the way a pig sniffs truffles, and a hand that somehow found its way neatly into the right pockets. Yet despite beginning life as a grubby little lawyer, he had managed to climb remarkably high within the French Parliament. For all her scorn, however, Lady Catherine sent for him often enough.

More than once, he had guided her toward reputable Jewish bankers in Paris and steered her household safely through difficulties that might have ruined a less cautious family. He moved through every arrière-ban, coin devaluation, and tangled law between England and France. His purse was always full and rarely opened without good reason. Lady Catherine liked to recall how Claude Payne had married Lady Constance, the elder daughter of the impoverished Count of Toulouse, a match between a wolf and a sheep, as she put it. The union produced no children, and the couple devoted themselves entirely to advancing their fortunes until the morning Marguerite appeared on their doorstep.

She was only a few months old when she was left there in a large wicker basket. Beside the sleeping infant lay a small linen bag containing a gold ring and a ruby necklace of heart-shaped stones, and a brief note. The note declared only that the child was an orphan entrusted to Maître Payne’s care. After examining the objects and conferring briefly with Lady Constance, Claude decided to send the infant south to Gascony, still in her original wicker basket. There she was placed within the household of Lady Catherine of Aumale in Bordeaux, where she remained for the next fifteen years.

Just as Claude Payne observed the young woman, a sudden plea broke the quiet of the street.

“For heaven’s sake, would someone get me out?”

The voice came from within the linen-covered wagon, sounding so urgent that Claude was ready to haul out whoever was trapped inside with his own hands. He was glad he had hesitated. A heavy, red-faced woman emerged, trailed by a faint cloud of heat and sweat. Claude took a discreet step back.

“Lady Catherine,” he said with a bow.

He and his wife waited several long moments while the lady directed her servants, with pointed gestures, to unload a particular trunk from the wagon. With a heavy thud, one of her men dropped Marguerite’s battered box onto the ground and abandoned it there.

In the meantime, Marguerite took in her guardians without a change in expression. Lady Constance’s dress was of good quality, carefully kept, though its cut had seen more than one season. Maître Payne’s sleeves gleamed faintly at the elbows where the fabric had been polished smooth by constant wear. The corners of Marguerite’s mouth curled almost imperceptibly. Her gaze drifted from their sensible shoes to the neatly mended hems of their garments, then upward along the house itself. Everything about it reflected the same spirit as its owners: sturdy, orderly, and entirely without unnecessary ornament. Everything, that is, except for the row of thin stakes fixed along the roof at perfectly measured intervals, which resembled painted eyelashes on a pretty maiden.

Her guardian shifted his weight and coughed discreetly when Lady Catherine continued to discover new instructions for her servants.

“How fare you, my lady?” he asked at last. “You honor us with your visit.”

Lady Catherine inclined her head. “I am pleased to see you again after all these years, Maître Payne. And you as well, Lady Constance. It has been so long since I last saw you at court. Many years indeed.”

Marguerite saw Madame Payne’s lips press together and her chin tilt upward imperceptibly.

“Yes, well,” she replied, “I enjoyed peace and solitude while others bore fruit year after year.”

She deliberately focused her gaze on the lady’s protruding midsection. Lady Catherine’s mouth opened in a gasp, but her guardian intervened just in time.

“My wife and I are quite content, are we not, dear? We receive frequent invitations to dine with the finest noble families in Caen.”

He patted his heavy purse and thrust his round belly forward.

Lady Catherine smiled. “You will be most welcome in our home in Wales, of course. In fact, I shall send you an invitation to the hunting party my husband and I will host this September.”

Marguerite lowered her eyes to the ground. The memory of Lady Catherine emptying her trinkets onto the pawnbroker’s scale in Bordeaux was still fresh in her mind. So too was that of the creditors who returned to her door each morning, knocking until the servants threatened to throttle them if they did not stop. In light of such recollections, the promised hunting party struck her as perhaps a touch optimistic.

“Speaking of pleasures, my lady,” Claude said, “I trust you received the funds we agreed on for my ward’s safe transport. I will advance you a further sum upon the conclusion of the… ahem… transaction. Concludatur multum noster erit,” he chanted in Latin. “Our deal will be concluded.”

His bow was so deep it was almost a prostration before Lady Catherine.

“My dear Maître Payne, what a charming little house you have,” she chanted. “I sometimes imagine living in such a cozy little hut. It is unfortunate that my husband could not accompany us. Alas, he had to remain behind to help the Count of Tourval defend his holdings. The wretched bandits are a constant menace. My nephew is still tied up in Normandy, or he would have come to assist.”

“How is your nephew, my lady? I heard he became the Earl of Ayton. He is a very fortunate man.”

“Yes, James is every lady’s favorite. He is away once more on another campaign with the king, though I pray daily for his safe return to England. You see, he is soon to improve the family’s fortunes considerably. We are all counting on it.”

Claude tilted his head and listened with renewed interest. “Is it a promising prospect?”

“He is soon to marry Dame Gillis Rochon,” she replied. “A union truly made in heaven. The two are like lovebirds, forever exchanging letters with one another. It quite warms my heart.”

Maître Payne paused, turning the matter over. He had heard the lady’s name often enough. His colleagues frequently discussed the heiress, who had recently lost her husband and inherited a vast fortune. She had been in search of a husband for some time, each one younger than the last.

“An excellent match,” he said, suppressing a knowing smile. “The lady possesses admirable property. Lord Ayton will be most pleased with the acquisition. She is a fruitful bride in all other respects.”

He then paused briefly, his gaze turning to Marguerite.

“You have fared well, my dear. Let me look at you.”

He grasped her hands and spread them apart, then examined her from top to bottom, as if she were a prime cut of meat displayed at a butcher shop across the street.

“You have become quite the lady,” he said at last. “You look every bit the future countess. You have surpassed my expectations in grace and beauty. Welcome to my humble home, my dear.”

Marguerite gave her guardian a dutiful kiss on the cheek. At that exact moment, a woman emerged from the front entrance, and her presence immediately commanded the entire space. She smiled at Marguerite, but her smile disappeared as her eyes moved from the girl’s face to her yellow gown, then to the dull ochre horse behind her and, finally, to Lady Catherine standing next to her. One of her eyebrows arched and held its position.

Madame Payne smiled and introduced the woman at once.

“This is Jeanne, our housekeeper.”

Marguerite gave the woman a thorough look. Jeanne was tall and attractive, still in her younger years, with a round face and narrow, slanted brown eyes framed with laugh lines. Her nose was perfectly straight, with a subtle widening at the end. A white linen wimple framed her face, drawn close under the chin and falling in soft folds around her neck, not a strand of hair daring to escape. She wore a dress made of bright scraps which caught the light in uneven flashes. Over it lay a white linen apron, unmarked and smooth. A sizable key dangled from her hip, swaying gently against her apron as she walked.

Jeanne placed her hands on her hips, lifting her head upward and commanded, “You there!”

Lady Catherine stopped moving and widened her eyes.

“Yes?” she asked.

Jeanne raised her eyebrows. She tilted a little to the side, peering past Lady Catherine’s shoulder.

“Not you.” She pointed her finger at a servant behind her. “Him.”

Lady Catherine turned around. Her servant stood, leaning against the wagon, idly nudging the corner of Marguerite’s abandoned trunk with his foot.

“Get this box inside,” Jeanne said, “and be quick about it.”

He folded his arms and stared back at her. The trunk sat between them, untouched. Jeanne smirked and took a step forward. Her fingers stretched, then curled again with a quiet crack.

“Do your legs respond better to a clip around your ear, dear?” she asked.

The young man lifted the trunk at once and carried it inside. Jeanne adjusted her sleeves and brushed an invisible crease from her apron. Her gaze met Madame Payne’s and held for a moment. Then she turned and proceeded inside after the servant.

Seizing the moment, Marguerite quickly looked at Jacque and spoke up before anyone else could.

“Maître Payne,” she said, “I wish to keep my servant, Jacque, if I may. Would you allow him to remain here? He is indispensable to me. He has a remarkable talent for numbers and accounts. I cannot even list all the ways he can turn a profit.”

She did not regret her choice of words.

“Profit, you say?” Claude asked at once, narrowing his eyes. “Very well. I can’t seem to hold on to servants these days. The last one was a useless, lazy turd.”

Lady Catherine gasped and pressed a hand to her chest. “Maître Payne, upon my honor!”

Marguerite coughed to hide a chuckle. The lady’s own language had been rather less restrained when she believed no one was listening.

“Forgive me, my lady,” her guardian said. “I did not mean to offend your delicate hearing.”

Lady Catherine’s hand fell, and an arranged smile returned to her lips.

“Maître Payne, might you be interested in purchasing a horse?” She turned toward Marguerite’s mare. “You may have her for… five livres.”

The mare snorted loudly.

“Unfortunately, I have no use for a horse, my lady. Perhaps the butcher in the next lane might take an interest.”

The animal flicked an ear in his direction and gave him a pointed sidelong look.

Lady Catherine was undeterred.

“Might you then advance me a modest sum to secure temporary lodgings?” she asked again. “Travel through France is not without expense. I trust we are quite safe here.”

She cast a cautious glance around. The street was quiet, its stone buildings clean and orderly, their shutters drawn neatly against the sun. A few well-dressed passers-by moved along at an unhurried pace, giving the strangers no more than a brief glance before continuing on.

“I shall remain on the Île Saint-Jean for a week before continuing to England,” she said. “The Count of Eu expects me at his feast this evening. My confinement cannot be far off, so I must make the most of my freedom while I may.”

Claude’s expression remained unchanged. After all, he saw the count nearly every day.

“At the castle? What an honor, my lady,” he said without interest.

“Raoul is a busy man. He is the Great Constable of France after all. But he always finds time for entertaining his special friends. I had hoped the Duke of Normandy might attend, but he is busy in the south. Still, there will be many of my rank present.”

Claude’s hand moved at last toward his belt. Lady Catherine’s eyes dipped to his purse, then rose again to his face.

“If Your Ladyship would be kind enough to mention my name to the count, I would be most grateful.”

“Certainly,” she replied.

“A modest advance is possible, of course, on terms suitable to us both.” He cast a fleeting glance at the mare. “The horse, I think, you would do well to keep.”

He slipped a small pouch into her hand, and her fingers closed around it at once.

“You understand, my dear Maître Payne, that I could only mention your name at the proper moment. These matters require a certain delicacy.”

Marguerite, who had watched the exchange without comment, lowered her eyes and smoothed the fingers of her gloves. She had learned not to place too much faith in her benefactress’s assurances.

“Well, we must be on our way,” Lady Catherine said. “I am quite fatigued.”

She lifted her foot to climb back into the wagon, then set it down again, as if remembering something. She turned to Marguerite.

“I am relieved that you are now in safe hands. Come, darling girl, kiss me and bid me farewell.”

Marguerite planted a light kiss on each of her cheeks. Lady Catherine lifted her handkerchief to the corner of her eyes, then lowered it at once. Moments later, the wagon creaked into motion, the red horse with its white patches tied behind, picking its way along the road. A few muffled snickers trailed after it down the street. The horse simply flicked its tail and kept pace.

After the wagon disappeared around the corner, Marguerite followed her guardians inside. The moment she crossed the threshold, she stopped short, and a faint gasp slipped from her lips. Light caught on polished wood and carved panels in the hall. Silver and gold trinkets gleamed on every surface. Vibrant tapestries, bursting with color, adorned the walls. The air itself seemed more substantial. For a moment, she did not move. She recalled the rough feel of her straw-stuffed mattress in Bordeaux and the sight of whitewashed walls, dulled and streaked with grime. A slow, widening smile spread across her face.

Never again will I sleep in a shared nursery or count every coin before spending it.

Marguerite moved into her new chamber at once. Jeanne immediately opened her trunk and began sorting, unfolding, and inspecting the clothes inside with brisk determination. One by one, Marguerite’s old garments disappeared from sight. Some pieces were set aside for mending, while others were quietly handed off to the servants waiting outside the door.

Then Jeanne turned her full attention to Marguerite. She helped her out of her old garments, down to the last of her underclothes, and dressed her anew in a fine linen chemise and a wool gown cut in graceful, sensible folds. She then arranged Marguerite’s hair, drawing it back and securing it under a silk veil in the latest Parisian fashion. At last, she lifted her ruby necklace and fastened the clasp at her throat. She stepped aside, hands folding neatly in front of her.

“That’s more like it,” she said with a smile. “Welcome home, my lady.”

When Claude saw his ward again, his fingers twitched involuntarily, as if tallying items he did not yet own. He closed his hand around his purse, released it, then gave it a small, thoughtful pat. He glanced at his wife, who nodded thoughtfully, her smile less enthusiastic and not quite reaching her eyes.

“I really must pay a visit to the Count of Garamond,” Lady Constance said, her gaze resting on the ruby stones at Marguerite’s throat. “I attended his wife’s funeral not long ago. The poor man must be dreadfully alone.”

“Perhaps we might invite him to visit, dear,” Claude added.

“What a good idea, husband. I shall write to him at once.”

Her eyes scanned the room, moving beyond Marguerite, and lingered in various spots as if measuring where future items could be placed.

Their conversation broke off when a servant hurried in to announce that a nobleman called Willen van Ranst demanded an audience. Claude crossed to the window and peered out. A covered seat borne on two long poles by strong-armed men in black stood in front of the house. Its exterior was crafted from dark, polished yet unadorned wood, with sturdy, understated fittings. Heavy velvet curtains hung closed, concealing the person inside.

“Who calls at this hour?” Claude muttered.

He descended at once to receive the caller, with Lady Constance and Marguerite following close behind. A stocky, dark-haired man emerged from the carriage and hurried toward the door. He had a broad, round face, heavy jowls, and a bulbous nose. An old scar crossed one cheek and disappeared into the corner of his mouth. His lips naturally curved downward, while his small, swollen eyes peered out from under dark, sagging eyebrows. He wore a well-cut coat of plain black velvet, entirely without ornament.

“Welcome, my lord,” her guardian said. “Pray, step into my countinghouse, where we may discuss the business that brings you here.”

The man inclined his head. Lady Constance stepped forward, drawing Marguerite along by the sleeve. Claude immediately began the introductions.

“Allow me to present my wife, Lady Constance, and my ward, Marguerite. She has just arrived from Bordeaux.”

Willen van Ranst’s gaze settled on Marguerite, while her own eyes moved calmly from the heavy purse hanging at his finely worked leather belt to the careful tailoring of his coat. Then she lowered gracefully into a curtsy.

“A pleasure to meet you, Margaret,” the man said in a raspy voice. He smiled, and the scar pulled his face askew.

“It is Marguerite, my lord,” she corrected him.

The man stood motionless for a moment. Then he looked away from her face, his eyes landing on the ruby necklace at her throat. There was a slight twitch in his eye. He had little time to respond, however, for Maître Payne promptly stepped forward and ushered him inside.

Just then, Marguerite noticed a young woman riding past. Her gown was fitted closely through the bodice, with sleeves that fell long and narrow at the wrists. Marguerite watched her closely, committing every detail to memory until the rider disappeared around the corner.

“Long sleeves,” she murmured with a shrug. “How impractical… and how beautiful.”

She closed the door just as her guardian’s laughter spilled out from his business chamber.