The Order of the Lily

by Catherine A. Wilson

  ‘You fool, Cécile d’Armagnac. You thought to bask in the glory of your harvest? Well, stupid girl, one cannot reap, if one cannot sew!’ She laughed at her own joke, then buried her face into her lap and wept broken-heartedly.

  Gillet noticed Cécile’s pale and drawn countenance as they broke their fast the following morning. He laid down his knife with a sigh. ‘I have been neglecting you.’

  ‘I have seen so little of you lately.’ Too easily the tears flooded her eyes.

  ‘Céci.’ Ignoring the stray glances from the workers at the other end of the hall, Gillet lifted her onto his lap and brushed the hair from her face. ‘What is it? Are you not well?’

  Cécile curled herself into a tiny ball and buried her head into his shoulder. She sniffed back a wave of desolation that was threatening to engulf her. ‘I am at odds. One moment I could sing for joy and the next I feel as though my world is ending. I have barely laid eyes upon you for days, and … and …’ The dam broke its banks and she sobbed against his neck. ‘I am getting fat!’

  ‘Hush, now. You are out of sorts.’ He lifted her chin, his thumb lightly stroking her bottom lip. ‘I will make it up to you. I have achieved a measure of success at the mill, so today we shall take some time for ourselves. Yes? Inferno needs exercise so allow me the morning to oversee the men, and meet me outside the stable after noon. Agreed?’ He raised her blotched face and she tried to smile.

  Towards noon Cécile was impatiently awaiting the arrival of Veronique to help her dress. The girl was tardy and Cécile was irritable. As she left the hall that morning, a comment from one of the workers had caught her ears. Further inquiry had revealed that it had become Gwynedd’s habit of late to bake pies and deliver them to the mill. The Welsh witch was being hailed as a saint for her charitable work.

  ‘About time,’ snapped Cécile when Veronique appeared at her door.

  ‘Your pardon, Mademoiselle,’ replied the maid, dipping a curtsey, ‘I was in attendance to the Madame d’Albret.’

  Cécile was instantly remorseful. After all, Veronique was Marguerite’s maid and had only been assigned temporarily. ‘Perhaps I should consider a girl for my own use. Is there one you would recommend?’ Cécile sat on the stool so Veronique could dress her hair.

  ‘Oui, Mademoiselle. I have always thought Minette was ill-placed in the kitchen. She is diligent and a hard worker but far too dainty to be hauling kettles of boiling water.

  ‘Minette? Do you mean the girl that helps you fill my bath?’

  ‘Oui, Mademoiselle. She was brought to the manor two and half years ago after her father, the village blacksmith, was killed.’ Veronique paused in her brushing, consumed by reminiscence. ‘He was attacked by three outlaws right in front of the poor child. Her maman,’ she crossed herself, ‘God rest her soul, died from the plague some years earlier. Minette was their only issue so she was left to help her father run the smithy. After the forge was sold to pay debts, Lord d’Albret, that is to say Monsieur Ghillebert, brought her to the manor. Had he not, she would have starved on the streets, all alone as she was, poor mite. But I should give you warning, Mademoiselle, she is all but mute.’ Veronique raised her eyebrows. ‘Not that she cannot talk, mind you, just that she will not, unless absolutely necessary. Ever since she witnessed her father’s death, you see. She was held down and forced to watch as the rogues slit the smithy’s throat,’ she wielded the hairbrush before her, ‘but, as the story goes, not afore they threw him against his own fire, and stuck the bellows …’

  Cécile laid her hand on Veronique’s swishing arm. ‘You paint a vivid picture, Veronique. Thank you.’

  ‘Your pardon, Mademoiselle. These men were about to rape the terrified girl, but God is all-seeing, and all-knowing. Lord d’Albret happened to be riding by on that great black beast of his, when it threw a shoe.’

  ‘Gracious! Do you mean Gillet came upon them raping her?’

  Veronique clucked her tongue. ‘He could do nothing for the father, you understand, but he put a swift end to their antics, I can tell you.’ Her eyes rolled skywards. ‘His lordship was so enraged he had their carcasses strung up in the square for nigh on a month as a warning to others. Terrified the villagers, it did, and Chilham smelt like a rotting sewer for weeks.’

  ‘And the girl? Minette?’

  ‘Brought her here. She is sixteen now and as dainty as a flower, but for over two years we have tried to get more than a peep out of her.’ Veronique resumed brushing Cécile’s hair. ‘But a kind mistress, like yourself, might have more success, if you were to take her in hand.’

  ‘Thank you, Veronique. I shall definitely speak with Lord d’Albret.’

  With her hair dressed and having donned one of Marguerite’s gowns, Cécile made her way to the stable yard, filled with a new purpose. She found Gillet already lunging the great stallion and, smiling, she climbed upon the rail to watch.

  Horse and master worked together. Inferno, trotting in a circle, responded to the tugs upon the rope and heeded his master’s requests. Sweat shimmered on the beast’s jet black coat and his limbs made a whistling sound as he moved through the gaits, from a walk to a trot, to a canter, and returning to a walk at his master’s discretion. Gillet’s shirt was half undone, his chest glistening, the muscles in his arms strain-ing as he kept his mount under control. The gentle breeze brushed his hair across his beaded brow. Taller than average, and well-proportioned, he exuded strength and masculin-ity. It was no wonder that women lost their hearts so easily, thought Cécile. Just to watch him was a giddying sensation. Cupid had no work here!

  Inferno whinnied loudly as Gillet reeled him in, swapping the rope halter for a bridle. The stallion stomped his hoof and arched proudly. Spittle flew from his broad muzzle as he snorted. He was a glamorous beast, with a thick mane and tail and not one fleck of white marring his midnight colouring.

  ‘What breed is Inferno, Gillet?’

  ‘A Barb, sweetheart,’ he replied, still fiddling with the strap. ‘He comes from Morocco and was a gift to me as a foal. Barbs are known for their strength and endurance over long distances, but they are also are very fast.’ He patted the stallion affectionately. ‘He has proven himself well worthy this last year, for my role as a courier was severely tested. No other horse could have withstood such punishment.’ Whatever Gillet had been adjusting had fallen into place and he flashed a mischievous grin at Cécile. ‘He is also hot-blooded and has a spirited temper.’

  ‘Like his master,’ she laughed.

  Gillet wiped his sleeve across his forehead. ‘Oui, Barbs are known to be very reliable but,’ he added, glancing up, ‘ unlike me, they are not demanding.’ Catching his meaning, Cécile blushed at Gillet’s rakish grin, and he laughed aloud. ‘Now observe, sweetheart. When a soldier is injured on the field, weighed down by heavy armour, a well-trained horse can mean the difference between life and death.’

  Gillet laced up his shirt then fell to the ground in a dramatic display of a man struck down. Rolling in imaginary pain, he whistled to his horse. Inferno trod carefully over to him, his reins dangling. Taking hold of the straps, Gillet tugged sharply, once, then twice more in quick succession. The great stallion bent his forelegs and kneeled. His rump went down so that he was squatting like a camel in the dirt, his legs neatly folded beneath him. Cécile watched, enthralled, as Gillet rolled to the beast and dragged himself on top. Inferno stood, and his master, miraculously healed of injuries, kicked him into a canter. They pulled up in front of Cécile, Gillet pressing his left heel to the stallion’s flank and pulling on one rein. He flung out his arm with the charm of a chevalier. His steed struck his front leg forward and touched nuzzle to knee, in what could only be described as a ‘horse bow.’

  Cécile squealed delightedly, clapping as Inferno pirouetted, Gillet widening the circles until they were cantering the whole yard again. Then he halted in front of her once more and neatly dismounted.

  ‘Heel and hold,’ he commanded. Inferno stepped onto the loose rein and
Gillet grinned. ‘And that is how you tie up a horse when there is no rail available.’

  ‘However did you accomplish such training?’ breathed Cécile in awe.

  Gillet stepped up to her and brazenly slid his hand beneath her hem, mischief flooding his eyes. ‘As in all things, sweetheart, one step at a time.’ His fingers tiptoed up her stocking. ‘The first lesson is balance. Those who do not possess it end up lying in a ditch with their maman’s ill-gotten barley wreath crushed beyond repair.’ He winked as Cécile drew her breath in sharply.

  ‘Sacré bleu. Larressingle. Armand told me! You were the boy with the pony that day!’

  ‘Oui.’ A guise of pure devilment swept across his features. ‘And I have never forgotten it.’

  Cécile reached out to stroke the faded bruising on his cheek, her thoughts flying back to the day when they had met as children. She had deliberately disrupted the swordplay until, as master-in-charge, he’d sat her on his pony to keep her safe. ‘I never meant for anyone to get into trouble when I kicked the horse into a gallop. Armand told me what Papa did,’ she whispered. ‘Did … did you suffer?’

  ‘A young man’s pride is a delicate thing,’ he answered. ‘I could not sit for nigh on a week, after both your papa and mine dealt me a sound whipping.’ His hand had risen on the inside of her thigh and his finger drew patterns across the skin. Cécile felt a heated rush and her stomach was turning somersaults.

  ‘Who would have thought the boy of that day would become my … my …’ She faltered.

  Gillet’s eyes darkened and his hand stilled. ‘Your what, Cécile?’ he breathed. ‘Your lover? Comte d’Armagnac would strip me of my entire hide were he to learn of such outrageous notions.’ His fingers resumed their play, gliding higher and Cécile swallowed heavily.

  ‘Why did you never speak out against me? It would have saved you a beating.’

  ‘Hardly chivalric.’ Under the soft wool of her skirt Gillet’s fingers had reached their destination and Cécile gasped, her blood turning molten.

  ‘I believe, Lady, that you owe me compensation,’ he whispered. Gillet spun around suddenly and removed Inferno’s bridle. He shooed the horse and threw the leather trappings over the rail. Then he scooped Cécile from the fence. The bridle fell to the ground, unheeded.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘The barn. Your chamber is too far and my mercy is at an end.’ He carried her across the yard, laughing throatily, ‘You once asked me when I first fell in love with you.’

  ‘We were on the road to Calais, I remember. You answered, “The first day I saw you.”’

  ‘Well, Lady d’Armagnac, that day at Larressingle was the first time I ever saw you – not in my role as courier at the palace, as you thought.’

  Cécile turned his head so that he would look at her. ‘Then that scrawny bag of bones who haunted your youth?’

  ‘Was you.’

  The old Norman barn had an upper floor where small bales of hay and sacks of feed were stacked directly beneath the rafters. Larger sheaves were stacked against the walls on ground level. Gillet dropped the heavy wooden bar across the door and, removing Cécile’s cloak, threw it over a loose pile of straw. She sensed in him an air of impatience and the urgency was contagious as he divested them of their clothing. His hands moved with swift tenderness but he took the time to unwind her braid, drawing her hair over them.

  ‘A mantle of golden sunshine! In naught but her stockings, does the lady hold me entranced.’

  Cécile’s chuckle was cut short as his mouth descended upon hers. The two lovers forgot the world outside, the sighs and moans the only sounds to be heard within. Cécile gasped at Gillet’s fervour, and if his lovemaking could be likened to music, then he had just taken her from one end of the scale to the other with complete disregard for all the notes in between. She lay trembling in his arms as he withdrew beside her.

  ‘There are times, lady mine,’ he panted, ‘when you drive me to complete distraction.’

  Cécile’s eyes widened and her hand flew to her abdomen. ‘Gillet, I just felt something! Fluttering on the inside, twinges, oh! I’m not sure.’ She gazed up at him in disbelief then worry flooded the deep blue eyes. ‘Do you suppose it is because we …’

  ‘No. ’Tis the quickening.’ Gillet smiled indulgently, covering her hand with his. ‘Your child has made itself known to you.’

  ‘Glory be to God!’ A maternal feeling as old as time washed over Cécile and she returned his smile shyly. ‘It will be a boy. I can feel it. And he will look like you, handsome, strong and dark-haired.’

  Gillet’s expression clouded as a shield of indifference lowered. ‘That would be difficult considering that golden hair rules the Plantagenets.’

  A cold horror washed over Cécile as she realised her error. ‘Gillet, forgive me,’ she whispered. ‘After what we just shared, I was thinking … I thought … oh, God forgive me! I did not mean to hurt you. I swear I had completely forgotten Edward.’

  Gillet rolled away, pensive and brooding as he retrieved his braies. He stood to tie the points of his chausses, his emotions flickering across his countenance like clouds racing before a threatening storm.

  ‘Gillet, please …’

  ‘Do not wish upon me that which can never be mine,’ he said flatly.

  Mortified, Cécile scrambled into her chemise. ‘I was confused for a moment. I was thinking … that … oh, Lord, please say you forgive me.’

  Gillet held out her gown, but when Cécile made no move to take it, his arm dropped, his other hand raking through his hair. ‘Damn the Black Prince! May he roast in Hell!’ He lowered to one knee. ‘There are times, Cécile, when I can forget, and then there are times when I cannot. Some mornings I wake and hope that England’s heir will choke on his own bile.’ His eyes flashed angrily. ‘Some days I cannot forget how you went to his bed. And now I must watch as his royal seed grows.’ He held out her gown again and she took it, dressing quickly to hide her body.

  ‘Mayhap you would have preferred for me to have twigged it from my womb?’ she retorted.

  His expression froze, his voice low and icy. ‘No. Never that. But every day watching you I suffer the reminder of what he stole from me.’

  ‘So, ’tis your honour and pride that is damaged? Must this bone be constantly gnawed between us? Can we not sever this Gordian knot? He did not know I was a virgin!’

  ‘Would it have made a difference if he had known?’ snarled Gillet. He sat and pulled on his boots as a small shower of husks and straw wisps fell on Cécile.

  ‘Someone is up there,’ she shrieked in panic.

  Gillet leaped up the rungs of the nearest ladder. ‘Declare yourself!’ His voice echoed eerily between the beams and he climbed another two staves to peer into the gloom. He descended shrugging his shoulders. ‘It is probably harvest mice.’ He reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head. ‘Llewellyn has a pet weasel that he sometimes leaves in here, specifically to catch the mice or any voles that have burrowed under the barn.’ He flashed an apologetic smile. ‘I forgot about that when I brought you in here. Come, let me re-braid your hair.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Forgive a self-righteous, proud fool, Céci. Some things are just going to take a little time.’

  Hefting the bar from the barn door, Gillet pushed it open to the sunlight only to be greeted by a wet, snuffling nose as his horse tried to gain admittance.

  ‘Aaahh! Back! Back!’

  Gillet pushed Inferno away and, grabbing his mane, led him to where the bridle had fallen to the ground. As Cécile followed, a prickling sensation crept up her spine and, turning, she saw a flash of dark green material disappear around the corner of the building.

  ‘Come,’ said Gillet, reaching her side.

  ‘Do you not think to secure the barn door?’ she asked, distractedly, remembering Gillet had toed it open whilst carrying her in.

  ‘Llewellyn will see to it after the evening feed. The bar is too heavy for Trefor to lift off.’ They walked t
o the stables, Llewellyn’s cursing greeting them as Gillet relinquished Inferno to his care.

  ‘Damnable girl! Taken off for the wood again, I’ll warrant. Go find ’er, Griffith. I’ll no’ be eatin’ a cold supper this night.’

  For some reason, for which she was at a loss to explain, Cécile could not admit to Gillet what she had seen. The idea that Gwynedd had watched them make love was mortifying but, worse, how much had she heard?

  The following day Gillet and Cécile were ready to depart for the village. Gillet wanted to settle the account at the dressmaker’s and arrange delivery but, just as they were about to leave, Griffith came running towards them, madly waving his arms. His out-of-breath account of sabotage at the mill was met with a surfeit of cursing from Gillet. He dismounted immediately, issuing orders, and turned contritely to Cécile.

  ‘I promised Monsieur Denis I would settle his account today, Céc, and that of the cobbler too. If Alfred escorts you, would you see it done for me?’

  Pleased he had charged her with such a mission, Cécile nodded and accepted the bag of coin. He made her carefully repeat the amounts to be extracted for each account then leaped upon Inferno and spirited away in the direction of the mill.