‘So, what is your plan?’ asked Gabriel as he, too, tucked in to the food platter.
‘Gentlemen, how are your juggling skills?’ asked Simon. ‘The Count of Flanders arrives this afternoon with a large party of entertainers, so large that they won’t notice four more.’
Guiraud smirked.
‘That sounds easy,’ Mouse observed, whilst filling his mouth.
‘I never thought it was going to be difficult to get in. It’s the getting out that worries me,’ Guiraud declared.
‘We will have to create a diversion.’
‘Such as?’ asked Mouse.
‘I am still considering the options,’ replied Simon.
‘Then perhaps we should defer?’
‘No. No … Catherine cannot wait another night.’
Neither could he. Finding sleep had been difficult as his imagination took hold, and he woke, more often than not, lathered in sweat. God only knew what would happen to her when the Prince learned the truth. What on Earth had she been thinking? Sooner or later it would become obvious that she was neither with child, nor a French demoiselle. In fact, he had to assume that her true identity had already been revealed.
His stomach knotted painfully. The mere thought of another man’s hands on her body was sickening, yet he knew he could not let his feelings interfere with his role. He was her protector who had vowed to never again fall under the spell of a woman. Not that Catherine was anything like other women he had known. There was nothing conniving or false about her. She was simply incapable of lying. And he adored that child-like quality. But perhaps adoration was all it was. Or did he feel something more?
He swirled the remainder of the ale in his goblet. He would never be able to forgive himself if he failed her the way he had Amina and Rassaq.
Catherine stared in awe at the gown held aloft by the maid. The deep red tones seemed to change hue, creating shadows as the skirt danced in the dim light of the candle. The neckline was beaded with tiny stones that ranged in colour from pink to purest white, each individually cut with precision and skill.
‘You are required to attend tonight, milady,’ informed Tariq. ‘I have explained to the Prince that you cannot partake of the entertainment and under no circumstance can you dance.’ Tariq held open the door to allow the twittering maids to depart. ‘He insists that you join him for dinner.’
‘What am I to do?’
‘I am sure Allah will light the way.’
Catherine fingered the magnificent gown and blinked backed tears. It had been four days and still she had received no word from Simon. Perhaps he was injured, or worse, captured, and if that be the case, she must resign herself to her fate. Her only consolation was news of Gillet’s departure for Kent.
‘You must remember to keep this dry and use the powder I have made for you,’ Tariq explained as he examined the healing wound on her shoulder. ‘The stitches will need removal in five days’ time.’
Catherine’s eyes widened with fear. ‘You are leaving?’
He ignored her question. ‘I have been directed to inform you that an escort will arrive at the strike of the evening bell. You must be ready.’
‘Thank you, Tariq.’ Tentatively she placed her hand over his and peered into his dark eyes. ‘How will I ever repay your kindness?’
‘Do not get caught, as it would be very difficult to explain my involvement in this deception.’
The strange physician had been the only anchor in the storm that crashed around her. Surely she would have long since faced the wrath of the Black Prince, but for this man’s presence. He had visited her daily and kept her informed of matters in the castle. He bravely carried her message of hope to Gillet. He paid handsomely to ensure the maids’ silence, and had kept the Prince from her room, placing himself between the solid oak door and the royal temper. From now on she would be on her own.
‘Dry your eyes and make ready. Your ordeal is about to end.’ He placed his finger against his lips and winked. Suddenly the message became clear. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, her melancholy forced aside by a sense of excitement.
‘Now, get dressed. We do not have long.’ He bowed formally and then opened the door just as the maids returned.
Catherine was immediately on her feet and allowed the servants to dress her in the ornate gown. She rejected the headdress as it would only hamper her escape opting instead for a simple veil and circlet. The ensemble did not include a cloak, so she retrieved Cecile’s, then joined Tariq who was patiently waiting in the hallway.
She grasped his proffered arm and he leaned towards her.
‘It has been a pleasure to serve you, Mademoiselle.’
‘And it has been mine just to know you. I cannot thank you enough.’
‘Do not thank me yet,’ he smiled, ‘for there may still be obstacles to face.’
Hidden in a recess of the bailey, Simon ripped the tiny bells from the sleeves of his jester’s garb and tossed the noisy decorations down a grate beside the outer wall. Several bodies lay at his feet, the last adorned with his cockscomb. He indicated silently to the darkly-dressed men around him and they split into two groups. Simon and Mouse crept towards the round tower at the rear of the enclosure whilst Guiraud and Gabriel disappeared behind a covered cart.
They met no resistance, which bothered Simon more than it pleased him. Perhaps the guards were preoccupied by the number of guests arriving. Either that or their plan had been uncovered and a trap set in place. Several soldiers passed them by but failed to look in their direction, which only added to his ill-ease.
Taking cover beneath the stairs, Simon held his dagger at the ready and berated himself once again for the situation in which they found themselves. He should have known that Catherine would never allow Cecile’s return to the Prince’s bed. He knew the loyalty the girls had for each other and that Catherine would do anything to save her sister, just as he would for Roderick. However, he was a soldier, a man with years of training. And damn it to Hell! She had tricked him and his pride suffered. He swore under his breath. When he got hold of her he would tan her hide!
He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. Far from satisfying his anger, the very thought excited him and he swallowed hard. She had no idea what she did to him or the men around her. One day she would inadvertently pay for her naïveté with her innocence. If that had not already happened! He prayed to God it hadn’t.
Catherine and Tariq had taken the longer route, around the outer defences and away from the great hall. The torchlight was barely sufficient and Catherine slipped in the foul-smell-ing puddles that leached from the castle walls. Laughter burst from an approaching group of revellers and Tariq pulled Catherine into the shadows.
‘Quickly.’ He pointed to the darkened corner beneath the outer stairs and Catherine slid from sight.
The party spoke briefly to Tariq, who claimed he was in a hurry, encouraging the strangers to move on. He waited until their voices were nothing more than whispered echoes in the distance, then called Catherine from the shadows.
‘We must be quick. You are expected at the base of the east tower before the bell strikes eight. I fear that we will not make good time should we be forced to dodge every drunken castle guest.’
‘Perhaps we should run?’ Catherine suggested.
Tariq raised one eyebrow, a characteristic Catherine had grown to appreciate, for it indicated that he was greatly amused. ‘I suggest we simply cross the bailey, rather than go all the way around. If we are questioned I will explain that we have lost our way.’
‘But if we are seen together, will it not appear that you are complicit in this escape plan?’
‘Yes. Then I, too, will have to leave.’
‘But, Tariq …’
‘No sense in considering that event until it occurs,’ he stated, leading her into the mêlée assembled in the courtyard. Jugglers, tumblers, mummers and minstrels occupied every corner, each practising their own specialty in the spac
e available.
‘Just a small part of the Count of Flanders’ flamboyant entrance,’ he explained and instructed Catherine to don her cloak and hooded mantle to cover her head.
Tariq grasped Catherine’s hand and led her through the weaving mass, sidestepping a number of exotic dancers with gyrating hips. The portcullis was raised, the drawbridge lowered and the guards distracted as they ogled the erotic women.
A noisy jester stepped between them, launching into a ribald tale involving a donkey and a monk, and Catherine’s grip was severed. Tariq was now standing on the opposite side of a human wall, constructed of brightly coloured tumblers scrambling upon each others’ backs. Panicked, she sought a way through the entertainers but was almost knocked from her feet as her hood was wrenched from her head.
‘And just where do you suppose you are going, Lady d’Armagnac? Not to your lover, I am thinking.’ Salisbury’s hand smothered Catherine’s mouth as he dragged her backwards through the crowd. ‘If you are so desperate to leave, perhaps you might like to accompany me?’ His horse was tethered by the outer wall and bore two leather travelling bags. Salisbury drew her closer, his lips brushing her ear. ‘One scream, one whimper and that will be the last sound you ever make.’ He placed his fingers around her throat and forced her back against his stallion.
A slight movement behind was his only warning as a crushing weight buckled his knees and he fell.
Simon caught the first blow upon his chin but landed several of his own. He grasped a handful of Salisbury’s hair and banged the man’s head against the ground, over and over, unable to stop himself from wanting to beat his enemy sense-less. Salisbury’s body went limp and Simon let go, aware of the incessant voice in his right ear. Catherine!
Simon scrambled to his feet and gathered her into his arms. ‘Are you … injured?’
‘Everything is well.’
He nodded, the lines around his mouth relaxing, but he did not smile.
‘I think we should be away,’ interrupted a giant of a man, who turned twice in quick succession, to peer in awe at Catherine.
‘Agreed. Assist Lady Holland to her mount. I will join you as planned,’ Simon instructed.
The huge man lifted her effortlessly atop a mare and was soon beside her on his own horse. Guiraud and Gabriel mounted up, neither man looking in her direction. Instead, they watched the crowd.
Simon removed Salisbury’s saddle bags and handed them to Gabriel. He untied the stallion and slapped it on the rump. It bolted into the crowd as Simon melted into the shadows.
Catherine peered around her, hoping to find the dark-skinned face of Tariq, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Gillet’s comrades drew her mount closer to the drawbridge, yet hung back beside a water trough, watching and waiting. A sudden eruption of noise and flame engulfed the centre of the mêlée as a cart exploded. Panic quickly spread through the entertainers, scattering men and women in all directions. Smoke filled the bailey. Catherine’s horse reared, almost dislodging her, as small, fiery particles rained down, smouldering holes in her cloak. Mouse pulled at the mare’s reins and they all sped through the archway, blatantly disregarding the commands shouted at them to halt.
Simon appeared on the other side of the sluice, his face and hands blackened and his doublet smoking. The party slowed to allow Simon to mount his stallion then they headed towards the city gates and into the open countryside.
They did not draw rein until they reached the outskirts of Leubringhen. The sun was setting and a light rain began to fall. Simon cast his eyes over the men but his gaze settled on Catherine. She had not complained, even though she was not comfortable on a horse. Her hair hung limp around her face and she attempted to smile at him with bluish lips.
‘We can rest soon. I promise,’ he offered and she nodded as though having heard, yet he was unsure whether she was really listening to him.
‘May I beg a moment of privacy, amongst those trees?’ She blushed.
‘Can you not wait?’
She shook her head.
Simon assisted her to the ground and watched as she rushed towards the cover of the bushes. Catherine attended to her ablutions, then hurried back to the men who were gathered around her mare. The largest of the three inhaled sharply, his eyes scrutinising her face.
‘I cannot believe that you are not Mademoiselle Cécile.’
‘Yes, you are most alike,’ added Guiraud.
‘I believe identical, oui?’ added the blonde of the trio. Catherine was mesmerised by his features, so fair of face was he. ‘I hope that we may have the opportunity to know each other better, perhaps.’ He took her fingers into his and drew them to his lips.
Though her instinct was to pull away, she found herself charmed beyond reason.
‘May I introduce my friends? This great oaf is Martin de Brie, but you might know him as Mouse.’
Catherine nodded, recalling her sister’s merry description of the gentle giant.
‘Guiraud d’Albret.’ The serious young soldier bowed formally.
‘And I am Gabriel de Beaumont de l’Oise, at your service, beautiful lady.’
Two hands circled her waist without warning as Simon lifted her onto his own stallion.
‘We had best keep moving before you are either drowned in shallow compliments or this God awful rain,’ he barked.
‘But my mare?’
‘Has pulled up short and needs to be rested. You will have to ride with me.’
Catherine clung to the pommel as Simon drew himself up and wrapped his arm around her waist in one movement.
Though she could not see his face, she was sure he was smirking, which he was apt to do when he thought he had the upper hand. Catherine took a deep breath, willing herself to stay calm. But she could not control the erratic beat of her heart.
‘You are trembling?’
‘I am cold,’ Catherine replied through chattering teeth.
He pulled back on the reins and allowed their companions to ride a short distance ahead. ‘You favour your left arm.’
‘I was injured in a fall. Tariq stitched my shoulder,’ she replied, aware that he had tensed.
‘But you told me that you were unhurt!’
‘I thought you meant … I mean … I thought,’ she stuttered, unwilling to address the subject directly.
‘You thought I was inquiring after your maidenhood?’
His lack of subtleness rendered her silent. A rush of heat scalded her cheeks.
‘Then he did not … you are …’
Catherine was unable to reply, mortified by the subject matter and she felt her face burn even more.
‘I see,’ he replied.
Desperate to change the conversation, Catherine steered it to safer ground. ‘Where are Roderick and Anaïs?’ she croaked.
‘I instructed my brother to assist Gillet to Dover. He will rejoin us shortly. As for Anaïs …’ Simon hesitated. ‘The Prince placed her in a hospice.’
‘Dear Lord!’
‘It is far better than she deserved.’
‘She is deeply troubled, Simon. We must treat her with compassion.’
Simon huffed and urged their mount forward. ‘We have a long ride, Lady Holland. Perhaps you should withhold some of that pity for yourself.’
Catherine closed her eyes and tried to block the image of Simon’s angry face. In his current mood the journey would indeed be most uncomfortable.
Catherine shifted in the saddle and felt her guardian stiffen his back. The lightest brush against his skin sent her soaring skyward. Every new emotion, though, was tinged with fear and at some point she knew she would have to decide whether playing with fire was worth the pain of the ensuing burn. She slipped her hand within her gown and sought the reassurance of her rosary. The feel of it offered more security than anything else in her life. Perhaps it had been wrong to disregard the church so rapidly?
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, hoping to break the silence that descended between them.
>
‘The Church of Saint Martin. I know the priest there.’
‘Sanctuary?’
‘Of a sort,’ he retorted.
Catherine pondered his odd answer, unable to fathom why he would offer such a cryptic reply.
By the time they reached the small church Catherine was wet through. The icy fingers of autumn rain had worked their way into each layer of clothing and the hem of her cloak was weighted heavily with mud. The once beautiful gown was ruined beyond repair. Several seams in the sleeves had ripped and the outer material was dotted with singe marks. Her hair, so neatly curled and pinned by the castle maids, had worked loose and now trailed haphazardly down her back.
Simon dismounted and spoke to their three companions, each of them disappearing to complete their allotted task. He then assisted her from the saddle and they entered the building by the vestry door, the interior illuminated as though they were expected.
‘Lord Simon. I am most pleased to see you.’
The parish priest was a small man, with protruding eyes. He embraced Simon with familiarity, smiling with delight at their arrival.
‘Thank you for waiting upon us, Father Pierre.’
‘It is a pleasure, my son. Come, come, I have prepared a repast for you.’
The vestry led into a kitchen, the fire within heating the cold air and bathing the room in soft light. The table at the centre was covered with several dishes and a large jug of ale. Invited to sit, Catherine bowed her head and waited for the completion of the thanksgiving prayer before breaking a hunk from a freshly baked loaf. Mouse, Guiraud and Gabriel joined them and, though weary, Catherine smiled several times at the playful banter between Gillet’s comrades as they feasted on the tasty offerings.
Catherine finished her third goblet, then leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. The brew had not only warmed the very centre of her being, it had also increased her sense of fatigue.
The Order of the Lily Page 7
