A Promise of Tomorrow
Medieval Runaway Wives
Book 2
Alexa Aston
© Copyright 2020 by Alexa Aston
Text by Alexa Aston
Cover by Wicked Smart Designs
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 7968
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Produced in the United States of America
First Edition August 2020
Kindle Edition
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All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Additional Dragonblade books by Author Alexa Aston
Medieval Runaway Wives
Song of the Heart
A Promise of Tomorrow
King’s Cousins Series
The Pawn
The Heir
The Bastard
Knights of Honor Series
Word of Honor
Marked by Honor
Code of Honor
Journey to Honor
Heart of Honor
Love and Honor
Gift of Honor
Path to Honor
Return to Honor
The St. Clairs Series
Devoted to the Duke
Midnight with the Marquess
Embracing the Earl
Defending the Duke
Suddenly a St. Clair
Starlight Night
Soldiers & Soulmates Series
To Heal an Earl
To Tame a Rogue
To Trust a Duke
To Save a Love
To Win a Widow
The Lyon’s Den Connected World
The Lyon’s Lady Love
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Alexa Aston
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
Libourne, France—1328
She had traded one prison for another.
Marielle Matesse gazed across the cramped shop crowded with rugs of varying sizes and shapes and actually wished she were back at Sisters of Merciful Heart. The convent might be gloomy but at least its spacious, high ceilings and minimal furniture gave her room to breathe. The long masses also provided time for her to daydream of places beyond Libourne. Paris. London. Even the Far East.
In their infrequent chats, Father Julien had woven fascinating tales of life outside the imposing stone walls of the nunnery. The priest had traveled extensively and the pictures he painted of people and places whetted her appetite. That, coupled with her eavesdropping on travelers who sought shelter within the convent, gave Marielle plenty of ideas to conjure visions of a life unlike her own. The narrow confines and religious rules did not bind her spirit from soaring to new places. What she wouldn’t give to see the ancient ruins in Greece or stroll along the crowded streets of Rome. Even if she could only journey to Paris and see the cathedral of Notre Dame or stroll along the Seine, her sense of adventure might be satisfied.
Unfortunately, that brought her thoughts back to the carpets that filled her father’s place of business. Yes, they came from worlds away. As a small child, she had enjoyed tracing their intricate designs. Now, they simply represented wares that must be sold, if not today, then the next or the day after that. Her life was one of staring at carpets and waiting for someone to enter the shop and break up the monotony of every day. A buyer was preferred but she longed to talk to anyone who might venture inside. Instead, hours crawled by as she sat, bored and frustrated.
Would she be trapped here forever?
Marielle smiled inwardly, not daring to allow her father to catch a glimpse of upturned lips. He was a man for whom mirth did not exist and he refused to condone merriment in those around him. She couldn’t recall ever having seen him smile. Certainly not on that last day, the day he cast her from his life and into the hands of the good sisters. She shuddered, wishing to pull a curtain on the past. It was better to push it from her mind before the clammy palms returned with the tightness in her chest.
That day ended her freedom as a carefree child.
In her heart, Marielle would never forget the events, though she’d been but five years of age. It seemed a lifetime ago. Ten long years with her in exile had passed, with Sisters of Merciful Heart being her place of residence. The nuns allowed her to visit with her family in Libourne once a year since the convent rested on the town’s outskirts.
It might have been a world away, however. Her father greeted her presence with stony silence. Her mother, frightened of her domineering husband, followed his example and ignored her. Marielle was left to sit alone for those few hours in the rooms above the shop, where she would gaze out the window and watch passersby bargaining at the market. Each year when she returned, another of her brothers and sisters had fled the Matesse household, off to seek their fortune or having wed.
Until only she wa
s left.
Marielle’s eyes burned. She bit her tongue until she tasted blood. The pain took attention from the tears that she would not allow to fall. She refused to show any weakness in her father’s sight. Her sins—in his eyes—were abundant enough. She would not give him cause to berate her further.
She walked to the portal and looked out upon the square. The midday heat poured onto those scurrying to and fro, women with tall loaves of bread, men carrying jugs of wine, carts rumbling by filled with hay and apples and wood. Everyone rushed somewhere.
Except for her.
She’d run away once before at age four. Even at a young age, she had sensed the unhappiness around her and was driven by a need to escape it. She didn’t get very far. Arielle had tripped and scraped her knee badly. The sight of blood terrified her sister and Marielle distracted her twin as best she could. When the tears subsided, Arielle refused to go any further. Marielle couldn’t very well leave her so she sat by her twin’s side until Gustave came looking for them. She still remembered her brother’s words.
“Are you addlebrained dolts? Or are you just stubborn fools? Papa will have your hides and mine made into rugs.”
He swept one girl under each arm and marched back home. She wondered how many scrapes Gustave had rescued them from, all ones of Marielle’s making. Or so her father would point out. He had a great love for Arielle, which she understood. Everyone loved Arielle. Her sister was all sunshine and sweetness.
But Marielle hadn’t understood why not even a smidgen of that love extended her way. From her earliest memories, Gautier Matesse criticized her, scolded her, berated her, or worse—ignored her.
Even at four, Marielle was not one willing to be ignored.
She sighed and watched a flock of birds fly overhead, their shadows thick upon the ground below.
“Pardonez-moi, Mademoiselle.”
Marielle glanced up to see she was blocking the entrance to the shop. She quickly curtsied to the well-dressed customer and stepped aside to allow him to enter. He smiled at her kindly.
She couldn’t remember the last time anyone smiled at her.
Marielle followed him inside, keeping a guarded distance. She would not want her father to accuse her of pestering a patron. From the looks and opulent dress of this man, he was wealthy, indeed. She returned to her place behind the counter, watching him surreptitiously as he perused the multitude of carpets.
Gautier Matesse took stock of the situation. Marielle watched his own furtive glances at the gentleman as he approached him cautiously. She had to admit that her father had perfected the fragile balance between providing just the right amount of assistance to a buyer and giving him room to look in peace.
“Bienvenue. May I assist you in any way, my lord?”
The man looked at several rugs with a discerning eye before asking Gautier to unroll two of the most expensive carpets. The stranger studied the patterns carefully, stooping to the floor in order to have a better look, even smoothing them with a careful hand.
“This is not a decision to be made lightly,” the man muttered.
“Oh, yes, my lord. You are most correct. And quite perceptive. You have chosen two of the finest carpets in my humble establishment.”
The man rose to his feet. “I will wait a day before I make a decision,” he announced.
He strode toward the front of the store and then paused in the doorway and turned to face her.
“Good day,” the nobleman said and nodded in her direction.
Marielle’s cheeks heated with the sudden attention. She lowered her eyes, half-hoping he would still be there when she raised them. He was gone, however. She wondered at drawing his eye. Would her father be pleased or not? He was a hard man to understand, his moods mercurial.
Gautier studied her. He rubbed his chin in thought. “Mayhap he shall return. He was certainly wealthy enough to buy both rugs. Did you see his rich dress? And that ring upon his hand? It would buy everything in this store and then some.”
Marielle nodded slightly in agreement. She did not want her father upset in any way. Now that Mother Superior had returned her to her parents’ care, she would have nowhere to go if they turned her out again. She shivered as she thought of the street beggars that lined the walls just inside the city, dependent upon the kindness of strangers for even a hard crust of bread.
Even worse were the women who sold their bodies for a man’s pleasure. Marielle hadn’t dreamed such a practice existed until she’d seen it herself only last year in her final visit from the convent. Sister Clotilde had tried to hurry them along as Marielle stopped in utter horror of what she saw taking place in an alleyway.
She pushed such frightening thoughts from her mind. No, she must do nothing to anger her father. She watched as Gautier glanced out the door again and then brusquely said, “I must go tend to your mother. You are far too clumsy to do so. Watch things carefully. I will be a quarter of an hour at most.”
He wove his way through the narrow aisles and up the back staircase that led to their rooms above. The minute he was gone, Marielle boosted herself upon the counter to give her aching feet a rest. She knew he would be gone far longer. Blanche Matesse’s demands grew longer and more tiresome as the years passed. She blamed Marielle’s birth for her being indisposed—and why not? Wasn’t everything else blamed upon her? Left unsaid was that Arielle, too, had appeared at the same time. She had been the last babe pulled from her mother’s womb.
Suddenly, a shadow darkened the doorway. Marielle quickly slipped down from the counter in order to greet the new customer.
Surprised filled her when she saw it was the customer who had recently left. He had a sad air about him, as if he’d experienced too many tragedies in his lifetime. She judged him to be a good score and then some, probably just a few years shy of two score, now that he moved toward her and she looked into his lined face. He paused in front of her, a man of average height. His weight had begun to settle around his middle, as it often did on men as they aged.
“Did you forget something, my lord?” she asked nervously.
He looked about, hesitating for a moment. Marielle realized what he wanted.
“I can fetch my father. He has only gone upstairs for a moment to check on my mother, who is ill. He’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have regarding either of the rugs you looked at before.”
She quickly walked toward the back of the shop, not wanting her father to lose this sale. Even if the man only purchased one of the rugs, it would pay for several months of food. If this stranger chose not to buy anything, somehow Marielle knew she would be blamed.
“No. Wait.” He looked at her a long moment. “Come here,” he added.
Returning to where the nobleman stood, she asked, “Might I show you either rug again?”
“How old are you?”
She was taken aback by such a personal question. “I . . . I will be ten and six within the month.”
He pursed his lips. He seemed far away in thought. She wondered if she should call her father after all.
“Do you like your life here? In Libourne. With your parents.”
How was she to answer such a question? She’d only returned to their house two months ago and, yet, already a lifetime had passed. Would it be improper to tell a stranger just how much she hated her existence? How she dreamed of exciting and distant places where she would find happiness and people who valued her?
Marielle opened her mouth to speak but he held up a hand to silence her.
“No. You need not tell me a thing. I can read it all in your face.”
She flushed, remembering how Father Julien often told her the same thing.
“I can offer you something different.”
Marielle’s heart began to beat wildly. Escape from this jail? Was it possible? She found her voice. “Mayhap you need a new maid, my lord? Or a cook? I have recently left Sisters of Merciful Heart, where I learned to cook and sew and weave tapestries.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Tapestries?” He chuckled. “I suppose Monteville could use more of those.” He must have read her confused expression and said, “Monteville is my home, a great castle in Bordeaux. I grow the finest grapes in all France and they become the best of French wines.”
He took a step closer to her and bowed stiffly. “My name is Jean-Paul, Comte de la Tresse.”
She curtsied. “I am Marielle Matesse, daughter of Gautier and Blanche. How may I be of service to you, Monsieur Comte?” Already, thoughts of becoming a servant in a grand chateau held more interest for her than sitting day after day in this small shop and boring town.
“You are young.” He frowned a moment then brightened. “But that can be a good thing.” The comte looked her up and down. “Your hips are a trifle slender but I suppose they’ll do.”
Marielle felt the heated flush crawl up her neck, thanks to her embarrassment at his comment. She took several steps back, ready to flee.
“No, wait,” he said softly, holding out a hand, palm down. “I seek a wife. I have no children from my first marriage. My wife died last Easter time. She was a good woman, but she was my parents’ choice.”
He stared into her eyes. “This time, I make my own choice.”
Realization dawned quickly. “You . . . you would marry me?” She licked her lips nervously. “I don’t understand, Monsieur le Comte. You must know a dozen women of your class. You could not possibly want me. I am but a common merchant’s daughter.”
The comte’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, but I do. He was right. You are lovely to behold. Summon your father.”
Marielle shuffled away as if in a dream. From the bottom of the staircase, she called for her father to come down. When he appeared, his anger melted instantly when he saw that his previous customer had returned.
“I see you made a quick decision, my lord. Which one will it be?”
He bowed low. “I am Comte Jean-Paul de la Tresse. I choose that one.” He pointed at Marielle.
She fainted.
Chapter One