The Order of the Lily
Page 1
Also by Catherine A. Wilson and Catherine T. Wilson
The Lily and the Lion
* * *
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Published in Australia by Sid Harta Publishers Pty Ltd,
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23 Stirling Crescent, Glen Waverley, Victoria 3150 Australia
Telephone: +61 3 9560 9920, Facsimile: +61 3 9545 1742
E-mail: author@sidharta.com.au
First published in Australia September 2013
Copyright © by Catherine A. Wilson and Catherine T.Wilson, 2013
Cover design, typesetting: Chameleon Print Design
The right of Catherine A. Wilson and Catherine T.Wilson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to that of people living or dead are purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Wilson, Catherine A. and Wilson, Catherine T.
The Order of the Lily
ISBN: 9781742983608 (ePub, Mobi)
Digital edition distributed by
Port Campbell Press
www.portcampbellpress.com.au
Conversion by Winking Billy
Cathy A
For my parents who love unconditionally
Cathy T
For Jean-Louis and Hazel
* * *
The French:
Lady Cécile d’Armagnac: Fostered daughter to Comte Jean d’Armagnac
* * *
Gillet de Bellegarde: Wrongly disgraced knight, working with secret order of Knights Templar
* * *
Armand-Amanieu: Cousin to Ghillebert d’Albret
* * *
d’Albret: nephew to Comte Jean d’Armagnac
* * *
Gabriel de Beaumont de l’Oise: Companion-in-arms to Gillet
* * *
Mouse (Martin de Brie):Companion-in-arms to Gillet
* * *
Guiraud d’Albret: Younger brother to Armand
* * *
Dame Rosetta Duvall: Formerly Cécile’s chaperon
* * *
Madame Violetta Duvall:Sister to Rosetta
* * *
Arnaud d’Albret: Older brother to Ghillebert d’Albret
* * *
Marguerite de Narbonne: Wife of Arnaud d’Albret
* * *
Amanieu d’Albret: Older brother to Ghillebert d’Albret
* * *
Veronique: Personal maid to Marguerite deNarbonne
* * *
Minette: Personal maid to Cécile d’Armagnac
* * *
Bertrand de Guesclin: Breton knight and French military commander. Grand Master of the Knights Templar
* * *
Tariq ibn Cordoba: Moorish Physician
* * *
Nicholas Flamel: Parisian Alchemist
* * *
Comte Jean: Count of Armagnac. Foster father to Cécile
* * *
The English:
* * *
Lady Catherine Holland: Ward of Lord Simon Marshall
* * *
Lord Simon Marshall: Earl of Wexford and a Knight Hospitaller
* * *
Roderick of Shalford: Half-brother to Simon
* * *
The Black Prince: Edward of Woodstock, Eldest son of King Edward III
* * *
Lord William Montagu: Second Earl of Salisbury
* * *
Lady Joan Holland: The Fair Maid of Kent.
* * *
Lord Thomas Holland: 1st Earl of Kent.
* * *
Lady Matilda Holland: Sister of Lord Thomas Holland
* * *
Symonds: House servant to the Albret Family in Kent
* * *
Llewellyn ap Ynyr: Welsh horse master at Chilham, Kent
* * *
Gwynedd ap Ynyr: Daughter to Llewellyn ap Ynyr
* * *
Griffith ap Ynyr: Son to Llewellyn ap Ynyr. Squire to Gillet de Bellegarde
* * *
Geoffrey Chaucer: Poet and secret emissary to Edward III
‘Milord Grand Master.’ The knight’s gloved hand swept over the stitched cross on his surcotte to press against his heart as he kneeled, awaiting permission to speak. A chill sea breeze ruffled the scattered leaves and hurtled them into the pristine cloister garden.
‘What news do you carry?’
‘Lady Mary St Pol is the administrator of Denny Abbey in Cambridgeshire, milord. It is an institution dedicated to caring for the sick and homeless. She has been its patroness since the death of her husband. She resides in private quarters within the grounds.’
Bertrand du Guesclin rubbed the dark stubble on his chin with irritation. ‘Is that all?’
‘It is true that Lord Salisbury seems to harbour some personal interest in the abbey. His retainers keep it under constant surveillance. Unfortunately, in the short time we had, we could not ascertain why.’
Du Guesclin’s eyes gleamed with interest and he fell into contemplation.
The young knight waited with reverent patience, his concentration wandering to the large statue of a winged Saint Michel, sword raised ready to strike the dragon lying supine at his feet.
The older man followed the gaze of his disciple, staring for a moment at the alabaster effigy – holy protector of warriors.
‘We need a miracle,’ whispered Bertrand du Guesclin, Captain to the Pontorson soldiers and Grand Master of a secret Order of knights. ‘Eyes and ears within the abbey would suit our need well. But how to place them? And whose?’
Understanding the questions were rhetorical, the young man remained silent.
The stillness was broken by the clattering of steel-shod feet. Bertrand swivelled to see an armoured giant coming toward him, a battered helm tucked beneath his arm. ‘Jean d’Armagnac?’ Bertrand’s surprised smile was filled with genuine warmth as the large man kneeled before him and kissed his proffered hand. ‘What brings you so far from Gascogne?’
‘A matter of grave concern to us both, milord,’ replied Jean gruffly. ‘I bring news of the Jacquerie rebellion in Paris. Charles of Navarre has killed their leader, and our Dauphin is set to execute the rebellion’s prisoners, who are in his custody.’
Bertrand du Guesclin frowned. ‘In what way does this concern us, my friend?’
‘It is of no significance to the Order, only personally. Among their number is Ghillebert d’Albret, my sister’s nephew, and trusted soldier to you, milord.’
‘Ghillbert?’ exclaimed du Guesclin. ‘But I recently granted him leave. He claimed business of a private nature and was, so he told me, on his way to Larressingle.’
‘So his message informed me,’ Jean growled, ‘but when he did not arrive, I sought explanations. It would seem that he fell foul of the Comte de Foix in Paris during the rebellion and was falsely incarcerated as one of its leaders.’
Bertrand du Guesclin inhaled sharply. ‘You were right to come. How much time do w
e have?’
‘Two weeks, no more.’
The Grand Master turned to the younger knight. ‘Tell Dubois to ready the men. We ride for Paris immediately.’
‘Yes, milord.’ The man scurried through the arched portal.
‘As it happens I have another concern to raise with the Dauphin, a small matter of unpaid troops. We shall find out what we can.’ Bertrand du Guesclin sucked in his breath and released it with a slow grin. ‘I believe you were wrong, Jean. It would seem to me this could be of great significance to the Order.’ His eyes sought the soft grey ones of his comrade. ‘Know you the Lady Mary St Pol?’
‘I do, milord. Through kin to my wife.’
‘Well enough to be granted favour?’
Jean d’Armagnac pushed back his knitted metal coif and the two men made their way from the cloistered walkway into a nearby chamber. They were seated at the scrubbed table with cups of wine in hand before the answer came.
‘Oui,’ Jean replied, huskily, ‘there is goodwill between us, a matter from long ago.’
‘Would she take a man into her service upon your recommendation?’
‘I believe so.’
Bertrand du Guesclin nodded, satisfied. ‘Good, but be warned, young Ghillebert may resist what I have in mind, for he will need to be reconciled with his family.’
Jean d’Armagnac grunted. ‘Then let us hope he considers that preferable to death.’
Du Guesclin rose and began to pace, his hands crossed behind him. Though shorter than most, his stature did not lack stock and he possessed an ethereal quality which commanded respect. ‘The Order shall rescue him from his current tribulation and in return he will become our informant at Denny Abbey. Ghillebert will be introduced back into the English court.’
Jean gave a low whistle. ‘You ask much of the lad. He renounced his English connections after the horror of Poitiers. What need is there for all this?’
Du Guesclin stilled his footsteps and looked up. ‘The Scots are becoming restless, Jean. Someone has let loose a flea in royal beds and the bites blister with English rebellion. Salisbury is sniffing around Denny abbey and we think his sights are upon the “Lady.”’
‘The Lady of Scotland!’ exclaimed Comte d’Armagnac, his eyes growing wide. ‘She has been located?’
‘That is what we need Albret to confirm.’ Bertrand du Guesclin sighed and looked to his friend. ‘Aptly named, is she not? A wanton whore slicing through hearts without feeling, and for whom those Scottish devils would fall upon bended knee to serve.’
‘’Tis not for what she is but rather for whom she represents. No Scot worth his blood would refuse a call to arms in her name,’ replied Jean.
Bertrand sat heavily upon the stool and stared into the murrey depths of his goblet. ‘France cannot afford another war and if those kilted highlanders were able to gather masses to fight for a piece of stone called Destiny, then there’s no telling what they would do with this. Such a rebellion as could be caused would not be beneficial to France. It is the Order’s sacred duty to prevent it. We must find this Lady at all costs.’
‘So you wish the boy to become a spy for the Order? If he is caught, he will hang.’
Bertrand blinked at the Comte. ‘Did you not just say the Dauphin is about to hang him for being a rebel?’ His hard look dissolved. ‘I see your affection for the lad but he will not be alone in England. Another member of our Order has recently returned to London from the East, a Lord Simon Marshall. I believe Albret served under him in the past. If Marshall can be roused from his perpetual state of pickled mourning, he might provide some assistance.’
Bertrand’s gaze swept to the statue of the archangel, just visible through the casement – deliverer of justice. ‘Keep to your prayers, Jean. God is always listening.’ His moon-shaped face split into a grin. ‘I believe I have just been granted my miracle.’
Cécile d’Armagnac closed her eyes and waited for death to take her.
She lunged at the wooden bucket and buried her head in its depths. Every muscle in her body ached and, in between retching, her stomach undulated mercilessly to the rise and fall of the boat. She hoped God would forgive her blasphemy but never, in all her life, had she felt so ill.
Catherine held back her sister’s hair and waited, damp cloth at the ready. ‘She is turning green, Simon. Can you not do something?’
Simon Marshall pored over his medicinal box and leaned forward to grasp a bottle. The chain around his neck slipped from its confines to swing free. Quickly he seized the gold wedding ring and settled it back out of sight. Roderick had retrieved it from Anaïs and handed it to him earlier without a word. Simon surreptitiously glanced at Catherine but she was too busy with her sister. He smoothed the tiny bump beneath his tunic and took up a phial.
‘Cécile did not want to take the mandrake but I fear we have no choice. The strain she puts upon her body is dangerous and these conditions,’ he indicated their present surroundings in the hull, ‘are hardly suited to a birthing chamber.’
‘Lord have mercy, it is far too early for the baby to come! Just do it, Simon,’ ordered Catherine with a newfound authority. ‘Cécile only wishes to remain awake for Gillet’s sake but she cannot keep voiding her fluids. There will be none for the child.’
Simon glanced over at his other patient, Gillet de Bellegarde, still unconscious from battle wounds, and his own stomach rolled. It was not from the motion of the cog upon the waters, but the recent news from above deck, where Gillet’s cousin, Armand, kept watch. A royal vessel had been sighted but Simon had not told the girls. Cécile had been correct when she said the Prince of Wales would waste no time in finding them. It would seem their escape from France was in vain. His immediate concern though was for his patients and resolutely he took up the little bottle of mandrake. Far better the prince find Cécile lifeless than one-life-less.
On deck Armand and his younger brother, Guiraud, struggled to secure the rigging on the square sail as Gabriel, with the agility of youth, scaled the ropes to the crow’s nest.
‘What do you see?’ yelled Mouse, his feet planted squarely on the deck.
‘Water!’ Gabriel shouted back. ‘Lots of water!’ He pointed to the horizon. ‘And the royal cog gains upon us.’ They all turned to watch the growing speck, the Prince’s vessel. The fore and stern castles could now be identified.
‘It will overtake us long before we reach England’s coast,’ noted Armand with dismay. Gabrielle shimmied down the single mast. ‘Do we fight? We’ve only a handful of men plus the crew but one of them has a bow.’
‘It will take more than one archer and a few swords to stop them boarding,’ replied Armand. ‘We shall be ready but do not draw first blood.’
Catherine pulled a cloak over her sister, who was now in a drug-induced sleep. Cécile had managed to keep the mandrake down and though her complexion was still pallid, at least the green tinges had faded. Catherine lay beside her, their straw bed hidden from view behind barrels of Gascon wine. She did not know what to do so she resorted to the only thing she knew, the one constant in her life which had never failed her – she prayed. Even though they returned to England, Catherine knew in her heart she would not resume her life as a novice, nor would she take her final vows. She gazed upon her twin and her heart filled with joy. She had a new path now. She closed her eyes and asked for God’s forgiveness in her decision and she pledged to protect her sister at all cost, for as she saw it, was that not why He had sent her?
Her eyes flew open at the sound of Simon’s voice. He sounded agitated.
‘Catherine, listen to me. Whatever you hear, stay put and remain out of sight. We are to have company.’ The boat suddenly jerked sideways, followed by the metallic clank of grappling hooks. ‘God damn!’ Simon raced for the hatch.
A voice rang out from above. ‘This vessel has been comman-deered, by order of the Prince of Wales.’
For the next half hour, Catherine nursed her fear alone, both Cécile and Gillet oblivious. Numero
us thuds sounded from above, the clashing of metal and one unearthly scream. Cécile stirred and moaned. The horses shifted with fear and Inferno whinnied loudly.
‘Throw down! To your knees!’ ordered a voice from atop. ‘The demoiselle, Cécile d’Armagnac, is on board this ship. You have two minutes to produce her or the throat of every man will be slit. And you two, find Ghillebert d’Albret!’
Catherine gasped as the hatch was flung open and light streamed in.
‘Down here! I found Albret.’ Men clambered down the ladder and, with no finesse, hauled Gillet through the opening to the soldiers waiting above. Catherine heard Simon’s loud protestations as Gillet groaned. Beside her, in answer, Cécile moaned and rolled over. Catherine clapped her hand to her sister’s mouth.
All but one man climbed out and he began circling the walls. Catherine’s stomach knotted.
‘Lady d’Armagnac, you may as well come out,’ he taunted in a sing-song voice. ‘I know you are down here and I will find you.’ He stepped closer to the barrels. ‘Don’t make me use my knife.’ The horses moved restlessly and Cécile stirred again, her eyelids fluttering. The English soldier unsheathed his dagger and grinned. ‘There, boy, there’s a good horsey.’ He grabbed Inferno’s rope halter and pressed his blade to the horse’s gullet.