Lion of Languedoc (2 page)

‘Don't run!' Léon shouted exasperatedly. ‘Mother of God, I'm trying to
help
you!'

She could see the dark outline of the waiting animal, see the bridle gleaming in the darkness, feel its warm breath on her cheek. Desperately her hand reached up, and at the same moment her shoulders were seized viciously and she was dragged to the ground.

‘No you don't, you old beldame!' Léon gasped, gripping her wrists and pulling her arms behind her back as she lay writhing face down on the leaves. He placed his knee hard into the centre of her back. No wonder the villagers thought her a witch! Any hag who could run so far and so fast was worthy of the name.

The sound of hoofbeats was nearer now, the flicker of torchlight like fireflies in the distance. Momentarily distracted, his hold weakened. Marietta twisted on to her back, her freed hands clawing at his eyes. He rolled his full weight on top of her, grasping her wrists so hard that she cried out in pain, dragging them high above her head. Pinioned and unable to move, Marietta saw thick black hair tumbling over straight brows and dark eyes. He stared at her incredulously.

‘Hell's light …' he whispered, feeling the firm breasts beneath his chest and the long legs trapped between his own. ‘A wench.…'

There were sudden voices and the clatter of hooves and when Léon leapt to his feet, scooping her up in his arms, Marietta did not protest. Instinct told her that her prayers had been answered. He swung into the saddle, dragging her up behind him, and with her arms tight around his waist set off at full gallop down the tortuous track.

Marietta clung on, the pounding of blood in her ears merging with that of the following horsemen so that it seemed to her they could be only inches behind. The track swung to the left, growing narrower and shelving steeply, and still the horse kept its pace. Léon glanced behind him. The flickering torches had disappeared, all that could be heard was the relentless pounding of hoofbeats.

He listened hard, every nerve straining. There were two horses, perhaps three, certainly no more. He spurred his own beast to fresh efforts. That meant that the searchers were concentrating on the area of forest she could have reached by foot—after all, they had no reason to think he would aid a fleeing witch. He remembered his conversation with the innkeeper and felt less sure. He had made his opinion of the Evray witch-hunters only too clear, and if the innkeeper had the wit to transfer his knowledge to the gimlet-eyed Inquisitor, then more horsemen would be following and there would be little chance of either of them leaving the forest alive.

There was a cry of fright from behind him. ‘
They're coming!
You won't let them take me? Won't let them burn me?'

‘They'll not have that pleasure,' Léon said grimly, glancing behind him and seeing two horsemen, their cloaks billowing in the wind as their horses swept round the last of the bends and came on at a gallop, manes flying, glistening necks outstretched.

‘Blessed Jesu!' she whispered, her arms tightening around his waist. ‘Faster!
Faster!
'

Léon cursed. There was no way he could outride them. His horse had already ridden many miles that day and had only had a short rest: theirs were fresh. The track sloped down suddenly and there was the glitter of running water. Léon crouched low in the saddle, steadying the animal's head, checking the wild gallop as the horse gathered itself at the stream's edge and leaped the wide swirl of water. He gained a few minutes' time as the horses behind him slithered to a rasping halt at the stream's bank, veering and snorting in dismay. Angrily their riders wheeled them round, heading for the stream again and taking it with a heave of quarters and a scramble of hooves.

Léon felt his horse lose pace and the thudding behind grew and swelled, bursting around them as a reedy voice shouted: ‘There she is! Hold fast, sir!'

Léon smiled grimly to himself. The voice wasn't that of a fighting man. A horse gleaming with sweat began to draw abreast and a gloved hand grabbed wildly at Marietta, trying to drag her to the ground.

She screamed, her arms feeling as if they would leave their sockets as she clung on with every ounce of strength she had. The animals were level now and the gloved hand, failing to unseat her, snatched at Léon's reins. Léon struck down with such force that he nearly severed the offending hand from its owner's arm.

There was a cry of pain and then the second rider tried to head Léon off from the other side. Out of the corner of his eyes Léon saw a powerfully built man lean across, tearing Marietta from her hold. As Léon felt the clutching hands weaken he had no choice but to rein in, bringing his horse to a slithering halt.

‘The wench is a witch!' the owner of the gloved hand shouted to him, as his burly companion succeeded in dragging a shrieking Marietta across his own horse. The nervous edge to his voice indicated that he would be only too pleased if Léon would profess his innocence of this knowledge and continue on his way without more ado. Léon wheeled around in time to see Marietta's captor wind a calloused hand into her mane of curls, half yanking them from the roots, the other reaching high under the torn gown.

With difficulty Léon restrained himself, facing his lesser adversary first.

‘The Devil she is!' he said in feigned surprise, riding up to him.

The thin shoulders visibly relaxed. ‘Aye, so we'll trouble you no more, sir.'

Léon grinned at him in agreement and with the full force of his knotted fist punched him hard in the belly. There was a look of shocked surprise as the man rasped for breath, toppling sideways, his feet caught in the stirrups.

With an oath the other lunged at him from the rear, a muscled arm encircling his throat, pulling tight against his windpipe. Half choking, Léon hit backwards with his elbow, the blow glancing off a stomach that seemed made of iron. Struggling vainly for the hilt of his sword, he could feel his eyes bulging, his tongue protruding between his teeth, and then Marietta hurtled from the horse and sank her teeth deep into the assailant's thigh.

With a bellow of pain the grip around his throat eased and Léon's hands shot up and back, circling the bull-like neck and dragging the man from his stirrups and over his head with a massive heave. As he thudded to the ground Léon leapt towards him, his hand reaching for his sword.

He was seconds too late. His opponent rolled swiftly over, scrambling to his feet, charging into Léon like a crazed bull, head low and fists swinging, before Léon had unsheathed his sword.

Marietta saw a clenched fist slam hard into Léon's chest and heard his grunt of pain as he hit back. Then they were locked together, lurching and swaying, the horses whinnying excitedly, one bridle held by a gloved hand as its owner backed away nervously from the fight. She saw Léon's hand grope urgently for his sword, saw the other's foot kick hard, unbalancing him so that they rolled and struggled in the dirt like two animals. Léon's face was drenched in sweat, blood pouring from an ugly cut above his eye as she stood watching helplessly, her mouth dry with fear. Then, with a sob, she saw the hands groping for Léon's throat, giant muscles bulging and straining as they sought for a hold. The fingers moved, closing tightly, squeezing…

Léon drove his knee hard into the other's groin, twisting away as his opponent roared with pain. In one swift movement Léon was on his feet, his sword in his hand, plunging it deeply into the rolling figure on the ground. There was a moan and a hideous sucking sound, and then only Léon's raw breathing as he sheathed the bloodied sword and kicked the lifeless body over with his boot.

Almost immediately there came the frantic sound of a horse being mounted. Still breathing harshly Léon turned.

‘I think not,' he said, catching hold of the horse. ‘A long walk will cool your thirst for a burning.'

Half senseless with terror the man dismounted, staring at Léon like a rabbit at a fox.

‘I loved your companion more,' Léon said contemptuously as the man backed away from him. ‘At least he had the stomach for a fight.' He turned to Marietta. ‘Which pleases you? The bay or the roan?'

‘The bay,' Marietta said weakly.

He grinned, holding the stirrup for her. ‘I judge it will take this craven coward the better part of the night and morning to reach Evray. Let's wish him good fortune. He'll need it. Wolves have a delicate partiality for witch-hunters, I'm told!'

His victim moaned in terror. Léon laughed, swinging up into his saddle and gathering the reins of the riderless horse with his own.

‘Are we safe now?' Marietta asked as he slapped the rump of her horse into movement and cantered alongside. She glanced over her shoulder. The track was empty except for the cringing figure of the witch-hunter, the only movement the quivering of the boughs in their wake and the spiralling of leaves, silvered in the moonlight.

‘Aye.' The generous mouth curved in a smile, white teeth flashing. ‘Did you ever doubt it?'

She looked across at the bloodied, forceful young man beside her. ‘ No,' she said, dizzy with relief. ‘ I never doubted it.'

The wind had dropped and the night was fine and dry as they cantered at an easy pace beneath the soughing of the trees. Gradually the branches above their heads thinned and they could see the pale glimmer of the stars and the beginning of open country. Léon patted his horse's neck, feeling his coat rough and clammy with sweat. In a fold of the hills was the squat shape of a farmstead and he nodded across to it.

‘A warm barn will take care of us for the rest of the night. My horse is tired.'

Marietta glanced over her shoulder doubtfully and Léon said: ‘It will be midday before any news reaches Evray, and then I doubt that they'll give chase. Rest easy. We're safe enough.'

His confidence reassured her and she swung her horse off the road, following Léon across the fields. As he approached the darkened farm he dismounted, leading the animals quietly by the reins. There was the dull growl of a dog and Léon whistled softly, approaching the flattened ears and bristling fur with gentle words and outstretched hand. The dog sniffed round him suspiciously, and then the heavy tail wagged and the ears pricked as he licked Léon's boot.

‘Saints alive,' Marietta whispered. ‘What sort of a dog is that?'

‘Like a woman,' Léon said carelessly, and pushed open the barn door.

It was pitch black inside, and strong with the smell of cow and horse. Holding her by the hand, he guided her through the darkness to the rough wood of a ladder. She climbed obediently, sinking with relief on to soft straw.

He kicked off his boots and unbuckled his sword, lying down beside her. The danger from which they had just escaped had heightened his senses and the memory of her body, firm and supple beneath his, was still fresh in his mind. He reached out for her confidently, his hand slipping inside her torn bodice as he rolled across her. He was rewarded by a stinging blow to his cheek and a knee brought up hard and high in his groin.

‘Hell's light,' he gasped, letting go of her and doubling up in pain. ‘What was that for?'

‘For treating me like the dog,' Marietta said, her voice shaking with fury.

‘But I've just saved your life!' he protested, incredulous at having his advances spurned.

‘And does that give you the right to make free with me?' Marietta demanded, springing to her feet.

Léon's eyes had accustomed themselves to the dark and he could see the milky whiteness of a well-shaped breast as it escaped from her torn bodice. Hastily she clutched at the remnants of tattered blue serge, holding the material tightly as she searched for the ladder.

‘I would have thought it gave me the right to something,' Léon said reasonably. ‘ That ox of a witch-hunter nearly choked the life out of me.'

‘And would have done so if I hadn't sunk my teeth into his thigh!' Marietta retorted tartly, continuing to search on her hands and knees for the elusive ladder.

‘You'll knock it over doing that.' Léon watched her in growing amusement. ‘I can make the jump easily, but I think you may find it a little difficult.'

The word she used would have done credit to a guardsman. Léon's grin widened.

‘I'll make a bargain with you. I'll not seduce you if you promise to act sensibly and stop grovelling around the edge of an eight-foot drop and lie down and go to sleep.'

She hesitated.

‘Oh, for goodness' sake,' Léon said exasperatedly. ‘I'm not so desperate for female company that I need force myself where I'm not wanted.'

To prove his point he moved to the far side of the loft and resettled himself beneath the shutters.

Relieved at not having to brave the night alone, Marietta returned, lying as far away from him as possible. Even at that distance Léon was uncomfortably aware of her body and of the intangible smell of fresh lavender. He closed his eyes determinedly and tried to sleep. A peasant girl could not possibly smell of lavender, especially a girl who had just fled miles through thick forest with a whole village at her heels. The tantalising fragrance continued to torment him, and he tossed restlessly. Despite his cloak and the straw he was still uncomfortably cold. There was a stifled sob and then another. He opened his eyes.

‘Are you crying?'

‘No.' The choking reply was a blatant lie.

He remembered the hideous flames from the funeral pyre.

‘Is it because of your grandmother?'

There was no reply, only the sound of her weeping.

‘The innkeeper said she was dead by the time they took her up the hill. The Inquisitor had a hollow victory. There's no need for you to cry.'

‘There is! I loved her and now she's dead I have no one. No one at all.'

Léon was not used to situations he was not master of. Crying females usually made him impatient, but this one was crying for a real grief and not just the loss of a bauble or trinket. He rolled over, seeing the black shape of her figure, knees hugged high to her chest, her fists pressed against her mouth as she struggled to control her tears.