The Order of the Lily

by Catherine A. Wilson

  Catherine screamed.

  The cog’s sail rattled upon the mast and the salt spray stung Simon’s eyes. The pain in his leg was abominable but no permission had been given for them to stand. He moved his weight from his injured knee to the other and grimaced. It seemed the Prince’s interest was only for Gillet de Bellegarde but then his heart sank as he watched a blonde head emerge from the hull. Cécile was wrapped in her dark cloak and rubbing her eyes. Her complexion was still milky white and she moved with the slowness of a sleepwalker but then he’d only given her a mild dose of sedative. She must have woken during the paltry battle. Damn the Prince! Damn him to Hell! Gillet had been hoisted aboard the Prince’s vessel, and now they were pushing Cécile up onto the rail. Beside him Armand stirred.

  ‘Don’t give them a reason,’ growled Simon, stalling his companion as Armand searched for his dagger. He could feel the palpable wave of anger and empathised.

  ‘What gives a prince the right to play God with people’s lives?’ hissed Armand d’Albret. Desolately, he watched as the two people he loved most in the world disappeared into the bowels of the royal vessel.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ The English captain was the last to leave. ‘You are free to resume your voyage though if any of your faces are sighted in Calais in the short term, you will find yourself a guest of the Prince. Adieu.’ He boarded his ship and the grappling hooks were released.

  ‘What now?’ asked Mouse, pulling his doublet back into shape and wiping blood from his mouth. He’d knocked out two men before they had subdued him.

  Simon nodded to the stern. ‘Untie the crew then meet me below.’

  Simon lowered himself gingerly onto the ladder and down into the hull.

  ‘Catherine?’

  Inferno’s whinny greeted him. ‘Hey, boy,’ he replied fondly, limping to the great, black stallion. ‘I will see your master returned, I promise you.’ He patted the broad, strong neck. A rustling of straw from behind the barrels saw him draw his knife with lightning speed.

  ‘Simon? Where’s Gillet? Is he awake?’ Cécile rubbed her eyes and yawned. ‘I thought I heard some noise but I do feel better now.’

  Simon’s eyes bulged. Realisation settled upon him and he roared, ‘Goddamn that girl to Hell.’

  Perched atop the magnificent chalky cliffs and glinting with brilliance in the morning sun, the majestic fortification of Dover Castle reigned with authority over the bustling port below. In the harbour a vessel was docking, newly arrived from France and flying an unadorned blood-red flag. Aboard the cog Cécile d’Armagnac gazed at the formidable keep as the sea breeze whipped her veil across her pale cheeks and snapped her gown into a sail. She gripped the ship’s rail, her knuckles white. Fear lapped at her breast with the same forceful constancy as the waves foaming against the foreign shoreline.

  Beside her, Armand d’Albret, the man she had known as her cousin since childhood, shaded his eyes and squinted. ‘Let us hope John de Beauchamp is still in his chambers at this hour.’ He nodded at the indomitable castle. ‘We would do well not to attract the attentions of Dover’s constable, the Earl of Warwick. How do you feel?’

  ‘Well enough,’ she answered. ‘Now that we have stopped sailing.’ Cécile stole another glance at the fortification and willed its chief occupant to be oblivious to their arrival. His curiosity would be a dangerous thing. Her hands fell to smooth her impending motherhood, dangerous indeed.

  For Cécile, the last twenty-four hours had seen more twists and turns than the Minotaur’s labyrinth. The breeze could not cool her cheeks as she recalled the previous evening before mayhem had turned the night upside down and inside out. In a tiny chamber at the dockside inn in Calais, she had given herself, heart, soul and body to Gillet de Bellegarde only to have him wrenched from her arms by soldiers. She had learned his real name was Albret, and he was from the Anglo-Gascon branch dedicated to serving the Prince of Wales.

  Within the space of a heartbeat her lover had become her enemy. It wasn’t until Cécile had been safely delivered into Armand’s custody that she learned the truth. Gillet was Armand’s paternal cousin, Ghillebert, and though born into the illustrious Albret family, he was loyal to France. Simon and Gillet’s companions had arrived at the boat, bearing the unconscious man and in their company was her sister. After being separated for seventeen years, Cécile laid eyes upon her sibling. But once more life played a cruel trick and both loves had been taken from her yet again. Where were they now? A stinking cell for Gillet, no doubt, to await the Prince’s justice. And with no chance to repair the damage from their argument, Gillet de Bellegarde might face death believing she hated him.

  And her twin? Catherine would be delivered with great haste into the arms of Edward, he believing her to be his erstwhile mistress, known to be carrying his bastard. How long could Catherine fool him and what vengeance would the Prince impose when he discovered the ruse? Simon had been furious at Catherine’s foolhardiness and wasted no time in his pursuit. He, Roderick, Gabriel, Guiraud and Mouse had set sail in the ship’s rowboat and headed back to France, hopeful of rescuing both Catherine and Gillet. By mutual agreement, Armand was to keep to the original plan and accompany Cécile to Chilham, the Albret family estate in Kent, where Gillet had promised she would be safe.

  A seagull’s vibrant squawk startled Cécile from her reverie. The ship had docked.

  The horses were fastened, one by one, into a giant sling and lowered into the water as crewmen bobbed amongst the waves, waiting to swim the animals ashore. Inferno, Gillet’s black stallion, attracted admiration from some curious onlookers, but most locals gathered to inspect the barrels of celebrated Gascon wine. The horses were rubbed down and saddled.

  The small riding party, consisting of the eight men-at-arms Gillet had provided, took pause outside the fishmonger’s for Armand to adjust his stirrups. Cécile’s veil fluttered like a pennant in full flight and the last hint of sea spray sprinkled the air as the horses, eager to stretch their legs, pranced impatiently. From behind the counter, hedged with barrels of fresh, salt and pickled fish, a portly woman glared. Her cheeks bulged over a tight barbette and she sniffed with disdain at the sight of a woman riding astride.

  Cécile shifted uncomfortably and chose to observe the surrounding countryside. It was a serene tapestry of variegated green hills rolling down to slide over the glistening cliffs. The lush paddocks were dotted with white, fluffy specks, a far cry from the barren, war-cindered fields she had ridden in France. England’s truce had come too late for some. Winter would see a populace of French bellies go hungry. A nearby lamb, separated from its flock, lost and alone, bleated miserably. Cécile knew the feeling. She glanced over her shoulder for one last look across the sea, and sent a prayer to St Antony, worker of miracles, for the salvation of Gillet and Catherine, and her own speedy return to her beloved homeland.

  His stirrups adjusted, Armand mounted Inferno, but the horse, aware that his owner did not occupy the saddle, tossed his head savagely and kicked. ‘Whoa, boy, whoa,’ soothed Armand. ‘Good thing he and I are old friends.’ He grinned, rubbing the steed’s neck. ‘’Tis rare he will suffer another upon his back.’

  Cécile reached over and fondled the stallion’s ear. ‘He is like his owner – proud, fickle and full of bad temper.’

  Armand laughed. ‘Now that is a charred pot calling the cauldron black!’

  The fishwife was busy weighing a basket of eels but Cécile could still feel the sharp stab of her accusing stare. ‘How long before we reach the Albret manor, Armand?’

  Armand tested the length of his stirrup and noted the sun’s position. ‘We should be there by mid-afternoon.’ Inferno snorted and sidled a nearby gelding, impatient to be off. ‘That’s if I can hold Inferno in check.’

  ‘He knows the way then?’

  ‘Gillet often called into Chilham when making deliveries between France and England. It is also his responsibility to take charge of the family estate during the winter quarter if his duties permit. His elde
st brother, Amanieu, resides there during the summer months but the manor should be empty now, save for a handful of servants. Do not worry,’ he added, noting Cécile’s frown. ‘You will be safe and even when the Prince discovers he has been cozened, he will never think to look for you under the roof of his own Gascons!’

  ‘What if one of Gillet’s brothers should come calling?’

  ‘They won’t. And anyway, as far as they are concerned, you are Cécile d’Armagnac, my cousin.’ He glanced at her thicken-ing waistline, hidden beneath the folds of her cloak and his eyes grew hard. ‘They need not know you carry the Prince’s bastard.’ With a burst of petulance his nature not often displayed, Armand dug his heels into his mount. Eagerly Inferno leaped to the fore.

  By early afternoon, a tired group rode over the drawbridge leading to the manor’s gatehouse. The long hours of the previous day and the tension of escaping France were beginning to take their toll. Round-shouldered and drooping in her saddle, Cécile forcibly straightened as admittance by the gatehouse porter was granted.

  They rode up to the main house, a grey stone construction in the shape of a letter H, the east and west wings poised at either end of the hall like huge bookends. A set of massive oak doors opened and, like bees disturbed from a hive, a swarm of servants flew out.

  Armand dismounted and passed his reins to the gap-toothed stable boy. ‘Alfred, see to the housing of the soldiers and make sure Inferno is well stabled.’

  ‘At once, milord.’

  A silver-haired servant with bandy legs hobbled his way over the cobblestones. ‘Milord Armand! What a surprise! We saw your troop’s banner from the road but if you sent forewarning of your arrival, sir, none arrived.’ He eyed the black stallion as it was led past, the question dying on his lips as Armand crushed the gnome-like creature in an affectionate hug.

  ‘Symond! My good friend! I trust this will not be too much of an inconvenience?’

  The aging servant bowed respectfully. ‘Your visits were ever a pleasure, milord.’ His eyes twinkled merrily. ‘The child I knew has grown into a man.’

  ‘Ha! Well you have not changed one jot. It does my heart good to see you again.’

  Symond flushed with pleasure and raised his bushy brow at the blonde-haired woman hovering a few paces behind. The chestnut mare she had just relinquished was trotting with determination after the stallion. Armand tugged Cécile forward.

  ‘Symond, meet my cousin, Cécile d’Armagnac. She is to be Gillet’s guest for a while.’

  The old man bowed. ‘A pleasure, Mademoiselle d’Armagnac.’

  ‘Symond used to look after me when I came to visit Gillet as a child,’ explained Armand. ‘He would fuss over our scrapes and bruises when our swords were nothing but wood and our ponies were barrels on pulley ropes.’

  Symond cleared his throat with the dignity of a privileged servant. ‘Speaking of ponies, milord, I could not help but notice you rode in on Milord Ghillebert’s horse. I trust all is well, sir?’

  ‘Gillet was due to sail with us but was recalled to the Prince’s service at the last minute,’ replied Armand. ‘Since my horse had not boarded, it was easier to swap beasts rather than unload Inferno. Gillet will be joining us soon.’

  ‘He is taking up winter residence this year?’ The servant’s voice had risen on a note of surprise.

  Armand frowned at the varlet’s expression. ‘I believe that was his plan. Is something amiss?’

  The aging servant stroked the sides of his mouth with thumb and forefinger. ‘I just thought, sir, naturally that with the arrival of Lord Arnaud that …’

  Armand’s eyes grew wide. ‘Gillet’s brother is here?’

  ‘Yes, milord. Monsieur Arnaud and his wife arrived last week. They intend upon staying, er, until spring at the very least.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Symond saw Cécile shudder. ‘Perhaps you should come inside, milord. The Mademoiselle is cold.’

  Armand allowed the servant to gain a discreet lead before grasping Cécile’s elbow. ‘This could be good news,’ he whispered hurriedly, ‘for it means that I can return to France immediately, but say nothing of your predicament – none of it! The truth will serve no purpose here.’

  They were led to the main hall and Cécile’s eyes widened at the opulence. The walls were sumptuously decorated with rich, colourful hangings and polished shields. Panelled coffers stood against one wall but her eyes were drawn to the magnificent carved rose marble fireplace. It befitted royalty.

  Two high-backed chairs were strategically positioned before the generous hearth and, at Symond’s announcement, a body occupying one unfolded and stood. Cécile gasped. The likeness to Gillet was remarkable, slightly taller but the same bone structure and black hair. This older version was thinner though, lending his face a gaunt, haunted look, even when taken in surprise.

  ‘Armand! God’s bones! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Greetings, cousin.’ The men embraced with a formal restraint. ‘Gillet had not thought the manor inhabited,’ said Armand as if that explained his presence well enough.

  A glint of displeasure flashed in the other man’s eyes. ‘One cannot leave an estate this size unattended. The servants will run amok! Amanieu wished for his winter retreat and we had received no word as to whether Ghillebert was coming home.’ His eyes strayed to Cécile with frank curiosity.

  ‘Gillet has been granted leave from court,’ replied Armand, ‘but he is delayed, and so, in his stead, I escort my cousin who is to be Gillet’s guest for a while. May I present the Lady Cécile d’Armagnac.’

  ‘Armagnac?’ Cécile watched as the man’s eyebrows shot up with such force she thought they would fly off his face. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘You are a long way from home, Mademoiselle. What brings you so far north?’

  ‘Cécile stayed the summer in Paris,’ offered Armand, ‘but with England’s goodwill in releasing our king, I was commissioned to Calais before I had chance to return her home. Your brother, whom she met in the city, has offered his hospitality until suitable arrangements can be made.’

  ‘Really? How admirable of him. Paris in the winter is not to your taste, Mademoiselle?’ Arnaud’s lip curled sardonically as he offered a seat.

  ‘No, Monsieur. The bloodshed was not to my taste.’ Cécile tipped her head in acknowledgment and gratefully took the weight from her feet. Gillet’s brother returned to his chair, bellowing for Symond to bring wine. He crossed his parti-coloured stockinged legs and rocked the upper one, a habit Cécile instantly found annoying.

  ‘So, how is my little brother? Still licking the Prince’s arse like an affectionate lapdog and fetching royal bones from all over the countryside?’ The soft leather-padded soles swung closer and Cécile firmly clamped her mouth lest she be tempted to snap at the conceited, pointy toes.

  ‘The last I heard he was,’ said Armand, arranging himself on a velvet cushioned stool, ‘but then, employed as envoy to the Prince of Wales is bound to keep a man busy … and rich.’

  To Cécile’s astonishment Arnaud burst out laughing. ‘I forget how well you protect my brother’s back, cousin.’ He leered at Cécile, one eye turning independent of the other. She glanced away, disarmed by this unsavoury trait, and resisted a strong urge to cross herself. Upon further inspec-tion though, she understood something she had not hitherto realised. In a family renowned for its ‘devilishly handsome looks’, vibrant blue eyes and hair of raven black, some saying the ancient Gascons of Albret had ‘sold their souls to the Devil himself,’ small wonder she had never considered Gillet connected. His eyes were of the deepest brown.

  ‘Did you know, Lady d’Armagnac,’ Arnaud was saying, ‘that Armand visited us many times in his youth?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, unsure which eye to direct her gaze upon. ‘My loss was ever your gain.’

  ‘Ah, but of course.’ Arnaud stroked his top lip and glanced back at Armand. ‘You were serving under Armagnac at the time. It’s as well that you bring the lady yourself, Armand,’ he
conceded with a strained laugh, ‘otherwise I might have thought there were hidden motives.’

  ‘Political conjuring?’ Armand laughed in reply. ‘I vouchsafe that plays no part.’

  Arnaud’s attention was distracted as a willowy girl entered the hall. Her autumn green gown was of the finest Flemish wool and beneath a ruffled cap, strawberry blonde hair curled with discipline over her ears, held in place by a crispinette. The accompanying barbette framed the delicate features of her young, pretty face.

  ‘Marguerite! Come, meet your cousins.’ Arnaud stood, his eyes glowing possessively as they rested upon his wife’s maternal carriage. ‘May I present the Lady d’Albret, Marguerite de Narbonne. As you can see, she has finally consented to do her duty and provide me with an heir.’ He presented the mien of a doting husband as he led her to the nearby alcove seat but Cécile’s skin prickled at his condescending tone. She slid into a curtsey as Armand bowed.

  ‘Armand-Amanieu d’Albret from Labrit, and his maternal cousin, the Lady Cécile d’Armagnac,’ introduced Arnaud. Cécile warmly returned Marguerite’s shy smile, wondering what Gillet would think when he learned the nursery of his home was to have two new inhabitants. It took all her willpower to refrain from rubbing her own small protuber-ance, hidden by the cut of her surcotte.

  ‘As you can see, Marguerite will soon be in confinement. We intend to spend the winter quarter here.’

  Armand raised Marguerite’s hand to his lips, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘I am sure Gillet will be pleased to learn of his new nephew,’ he grinned, ‘or niece, as am I for greeting a new cousin. Madame, you are as radiant as Mother Earth herself.’