The Order of the Lily

by Catherine A. Wilson

  ‘For me?’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe the King or anyone else, for that matter, would care whom I marry?’

  ‘I imagine your dowry would be quite attractive,’ suggested Roderick, ‘as are you. But I doubt money has anything to do with your desirability. You forget, you are the granddaughter of a prince, and share the same blood as your King. Any children you have would be perfectly placed to attract royal patronage.’

  ‘Oh,’ she answered, for this had never occurred to her.

  ‘You can claim descent from Henry III, thus greatly empowering your future husband.’

  ‘And I shall be forced to marry against my will?’

  ‘Yes. You will be forced,’ Simon interjected as he sat opposite her. ‘And Lord William Latimer has already petitioned. His avarice and immoral manners are well known but worse, Salisbury has suggested Lord Moleyns to the King.’

  Catherine paled. ‘Is there nothing we can do?’

  ‘Your current choices are limited,’ admitted Roderick, ‘and time is not on our side. Latimer is pressing the King for immediate consent.’

  Simon turned away. ‘I have instructed Father Pierre to marry us immediately.’

  The goblet in Catherine’s hand slipped to the flagstones, the clanging failing to hide Roderick’s groan. ‘What?’ she gasped, springing to her feet. ‘Surely you jest!’

  ‘I can assure you, Lady Holland, that I find no mirth in my situation,’ he threw over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

  ‘But ’tis not yours alone!’

  ‘True, but I have the most to lose!’ The door slammed and Catherine felt the chill of his indifference sweep over her.

  Roderick rose from his seat and took Catherine’s hand. His kindness brought little comfort as her tears of frustration and rejection began to fall. She apologised several times for her indiscreet behaviour, unable to control the flood of emotions which threatened to overcome her. She could not deny that she had harboured the smallest hope of winning Simon’s heart, for she had to admit, if only to herself, that she felt something for her guardian. He had certainly allowed her to believe that he cared for her and though others saw only his rude and roughened exterior, Catherine believed that she had viewed the man beneath. Cécile had often written her that men will want differently from women, depending on the circumstance. A permanent arrangement certainly meant a lifetime chained to another, in the way that she had been to the church. Perhaps Simon was as fearful as she and, if that be the case, she could forgive his anger. But one thing was certain. Catherine did not want to marry anyone and especially not Simon, now that he had displayed such displeasure at the thought.

  Simon marched out of the churchyard, stomping his way through the overgrown grass between the headstones in the cemetery. The last thing he wanted was to remarry. He had sworn vehemently that he would never do so again. But he had not expected Catherine, nor foreseen the manner in which she had infiltrated his heart. Yet he knew that a permanent union was not the solution. On the contrary, it was precisely what he did not want.

  He continued out onto the road towards the bridge that spanned the fast flowing river. He stared wistfully into the water below and took a deep breath. He had planned to take Catherine to Paris and hand her over to Bertrand du Guesclin before returning to Scotland. It was the only way. Bertrand would protect her as he himself would, but with detachment.

  Catherine could then grow to love someone her equal whilst he retreated to a healing spa, hidden within the misty highlands.

  Now his plan was unravelling and his stomach knotted. He closed his eyes and attempted to clear his mind but the image of his first bride materialised before him. Her dark eyes danced provocatively above the veil that hid the lower part of her face. Simon knew she smiled as he slid the ring upon her finger. Perhaps she had been happy? Or more likely amused by his strange token of love but she’d worn it proudly. Simon swallowed hard. Had they prised it from her hand before they buried her?

  The shifting sands of the desert dissolved the memory as another took shape – Rassaq. The sound of his newborn son’s cry, his beautiful golden skin and fiery red hair, tiny fingers entwined within his own. The pain in Simon’s chest was unbearable and he gasped in despair. He tugged down on the chain that hung around his neck, snapping the links, releasing his wedding band that had been concealed beneath his shirt. He looked back over his shoulder at the Church of Saint Martin – his past and his future. There seemed little room for both. He raised the ring to his lips, drawing the warmth that remained there to be stored in his heart. ‘I am sorry, truly sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I have to let you go.’ His grief was consuming and threatened to deepen his unhealed wounds. ‘She needs whatever protection I can offer.’

  A gentle breeze lifted the branches of the trees that lined the river bank. A scent, a hint of jasmine, wafted gently over him, drying the tears that had tumbled down his cheeks. ‘M’assalama. May God allow us to meet again.’

  He closed his eyes and tossed the gold band and chain into the torrent below.

  ‘I must speak with him,’ Catherine declared.

  ‘Perhaps he awaits us within the church,’ replied Roderick, as he extracted a linen square from his doublet. He offered it to her and she dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘He must be made to see sense.’ Catherine lifted her muddied skirt and strode purposefully through the vestry to emerge within the dimly lit church. Her guardian stood at the altar beside the priest.

  ‘Lord Wexford, I request the opportunity to speak with you … alone.’

  ‘We do not have time.’

  ‘But, I cannot. I will not … marry you!’

  ‘You would rather Moleyns or Latimer?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she cried.

  ‘Then you have no choice.’

  ‘But … but … I am not ready to marry!’

  ‘Nor I, Lady, but there is no one else.’

  ‘Lord Wexford, I am most doubtful that this union should be blessed by the church,’ added Father Pierre.

  ‘Better the church than the Devil!’ Simon immediately regretted his response and correctly predicted Catherine’s sharp intake of breath. ‘This is the best form of protection I can offer you,’ he explained. ‘If you marry me you become worthless to the Crown.’

  ‘Perhaps I should return to being a novice?’

  ‘You will be no safer than you were in England. Have you forgotten how easily Salisbury found you at Denny? And he was alone.’

  ‘But surely the church can protect me!’

  ‘He does not care that you wear a habit. He will still take you by force.’

  ‘Then Roderick or … or …’

  ‘You are my responsibility, Catherine.’ Simon turned angrily.

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ she replied, aware now that he was more disturbed by their predicament than she.

  Catherine was puzzled. Surely of the two, she had the most to lose. Simon could continue to live his life in the same manner that he always had. Once married, she could not. Why then was he behaving as though he was under enormous duress? In all the time she had known him, Simon had never acted wantonly or without absolute consideration. If he believed that her best protection was to marry him, then perhaps she should take him at his word. Catherine slipped her small hand in his before turning to the priest.

  ‘I give my consent,’ she whispered.

  Simon’s astonishment was clear. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No, but as your distress is greater than mine I believe I can trust in you.’

  He gently squeezed her fingers. ‘You never cease to surprise me.’

  ‘Nor you, M’lord.’

  ‘The sun will soon rise. I suggest we commence,’ said the priest. Guiding the party onto the porch, he opened his prayer book to begin.

  ‘I think we had best skip to the vows,’ advised Roderick, who now stood behind the couple.

  The priest nodded and turned several pages. ‘Take her right hand and say after me …’<
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  Catherine could feel herself tremble as Simon’s hand covered hers. She would be his property, his chattel, to do with as he pleased. Every path offered a different future and, given the choice, this was not the one she would have chosen for herself.

  ‘I, Simon Cephus Marshall, Lord of Wexford and Cambridge, take thee, Catherine, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, for fairer or fouler, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, ’til death us depart, according to God’s holy ordinance and thereunto I plight thee my troth.’

  Catherine took a deep breath and time seemed to stand still. This required all her courage.

  ‘I, Catherine, Lady Holland, take thee, Simon, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, ’til death us depart, according to God’s holy ordinance and thereunto I plight thee my troth.’

  ‘There is, of course, the question of a ring,’ added the priest as he laid open the prayer book.

  ‘Here.’ Roderick stepped forward and removed a small gold band from his last knuckle. ‘It would honour me greatly were you to accept my mother’s.’

  ‘Bless this ring, O merciful Lord. Those who wear it, who give and receive it, may be ever faithful, remain in Your peace, and live and grow old together in Your love, under their own vine and fig tree, and seeing their children’s children. Amen.’

  Under the priest’s instructions Simon placed the ring on her finger. It sparkled as it caught the candlelight. To Catherine it felt as constrictive as she imagined a shackle to be. She kneeled, fixing her gaze upon the flagstone floor and, rather than listen to the blessing, allowed her thoughts to drift to Cécile and Gillet, wondering at their reaction.

  ‘… Inasmuch as Simon and Catherine have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth each to the other, and have declared the same by the giving and receiving of a ring, and by the joining of hands I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.’

  Simon assisted Catherine to her feet, his face impassive.

  ‘This is when I would normally offer some gentle words of advice to the couple,’ said the priest. ‘Unfortunately, in this instance, I cannot think of a single useful thing to say.’

  ‘No matter, Father Pierre, I will make an additional offering to the poor-box,’ suggested Simon.

  ‘A few extra coins will not absolve sin, my friend.’

  ‘No,’ smirked Roderick, ‘but it may help soften his guilt!’

  Simon took Catherine’s hand and led the party out through the vestry to the kitchen.

  ‘No time for a wedding feast today, Lady Wexford.’ He turned to his brother. ‘Have the men ready to leave immediately.’

  Roderick smiled warmly at Catherine before slipping out the back door.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘We have a rendezvous with an old friend.’

  Catherine could not help but feel her spirits brighten as the sun appeared from behind the gathering rain clouds. Such beauty was certainly God’s work and she bowed her head and thanked Him for providing her with a truly uplifting gift.

  She was saddle-sore, tired and hungry. The wound to her shoulder had begun to irritate as it rubbed against the seam of her gown. Catherine grasped the reins and steeled herself for the upcoming ordeal. Though her convent education had been clumsy, she had gleaned sufficient knowledge to understand procreation. But it was Anaïs and her accompanying diatribe that had revealed much more of what occurred between a man and a woman. Catherine blushed as she recalled the events that had taken place at the Feast of Beltane. She knew Gillet had much to regret but Anais had paraded her pregnancy with triumph. Catherine trusted Simon but there was the question of his indifference. Perhaps he had no intention of making her his true wife?

  They were all but alone. Roderick rode ahead and Gillet’s comrades were some way behind. She was not sure if this was by design. She wanted Simon to say something, to initiate some kind of conversation, but he remained silent.

  Passing the outskirts of Saint Omer, Roderick separated from the party, only to return at dusk with a dark haired soldier by his side. Simon dismounted and greeted the man, before officially introducing Catherine as his wife to Armand d’Albret.

  Taken aback, the young man stammered. ‘May … may I offer my congratulations, Lady Wexford?’

  ‘You may, Lord d’Albret, and I must thank you for escorting my sister safely to Kent. Pray tell, how does she fare?’

  ‘Cécile was in good health when I saw her last.’ His face enlivened with his grin.

  Catherine returned his smile, entranced by the gentleman before her, so charming was he. ‘I will despatch a letter informing her of my marriage as soon as possible.’

  ‘She may well be in shock, as am I, Lady Wexford,’ he jested, feigning surprise.

  ‘There were few choices,’ she admitted.

  ‘So I am told. What a pity!’

  Catherine’s cheeks coloured as he winked at her.

  ‘Perhaps he will improve with age?’

  ‘Mount up, you little French buffoon,’ Simon interjected as he stood menacingly behind Armand.

  ‘Congratulations, you have secured yourself a most wonderful bride,’ Armand offered, reaching out a friendly hand to Simon.

  ‘Yes, I concede that I am more fortunate than most,’ he scowled. ‘Now, let us make haste. I fear that we are about to be caught in bad weather.’

  Armand returned to his horse, whilst Catherine was left to consider her sister’s cousin. One thing was certain, Armand’s sense of humour was going to lift everyone’s spirits.

  The first droplet of rain landed on her hand and slid down to her thumb. The second and third struck her head and arm and it was not long before she had lost count as each droplet sought every opening in her gown. She slipped in the saddle and her mare slowed cautiously. Simon coaxed the horse towards a grove of trees under which Roderick and Armand also sought shelter. Gabriel, Mouse and Guiraud were not far behind.

  ‘Best wait this out, methinks,’ yelled Roderick as a clap of thunder engulfed them.

  Catherine dismounted and backed herself up to the trunk of the large oak and dipped her head against the barrage of cascading leaf litter. She was shivering uncontrollably.

  Simon stood only inches from her. He longed to gather her into his arms and warm her, shield her from the raging weather, but he believed she would imagine his motivation to be something other than compassion.

  ‘We will camp here tonight, as soon as this weather eases,’ he directed the group.

  The rain cleared and with little daylight remaining there was no hope of locating dry ground. Roderick discovered sufficient kindling beneath a hedgerow to start a fire, which Mouse lit with difficulty. Catherine knelt and warmed her chilled fingers over the growing flame.

  ‘You are wet through,’ declared Simon as he studied her intently.

  She could not contain the urge to shiver, so stern was his gaze.

  ‘Take my doublet and spare shirt and change out of that gown.’

  ‘Surely you do not expect me to dress as a man!’

  ‘Better that than to take a chill.’

  ‘I could argue differently,’ she retorted.

  ‘I doubt the illness would bother you much. However, my remedy might,’ he threatened.

  Catherine rolled her tongue around inside her mouth. She had bitten it badly in Shalford after Anaïs had assaulted her. Her guardian had placed a truly revolting concoction upon the wound that had made her vomit on several occasions. He was right. His remedies left a great deal to be desired.

  Catherine hid behind a thicket and struggled out of the tatty remains to don Simon’s garb. The linen shirt reached past her knees and the sleeves engulfed her hands. The d
oublet was heavy, but warm and impregnated with his scent. She returned to the fire and settled upon the blanket offered by Roderick.

  ‘We have a little bread and some ale … Yes?’

  ‘Thank you, Roderick, but I fear I have left my appetite in England.’

  ‘You must eat,’ instructed Simon harshly, pushing a dry hunk into her hands.

  She ignored his brusque remark, picking dispiritedly at the offering before lying down beside the fire. Simon covered her with his cloak and brushed her cheek with his hand.

  ‘I am sorry, Simon.’

  ‘Why do you apologise?’

  ‘I have angered you, or at least made you very unhappy.’

  ‘You think yourself the cause of my mood?’

  ‘I do, of course I do,’ she declared, sitting back up. ‘I am a poor choice for a wife.’

  ‘You think yourself so, yet you were far more willing to marry Roderick. I must therefore be a poor choice of husband.’

  ‘That is not true,’ she declared. ‘I mean … well … what I meant was that he looked less likely to object.’

  ‘That is only because he is already married!’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Go to sleep.’ His voice was tinged with despair and she watched as he walked away to join the men.

  Catherine lay still for some time, desperately tired but unable to find rest. The terrible pain in her chest would not subside and each time she thought of Simon it became worse. She had offended him by suggesting her preference for Roderick as a prospective husband. But she was sure that her guardian did not want to marry her, so why now the churlish behaviour?

  Over by the horses, he and the soldiers huddled together, heads bent in conversation. She peeped from lowered lids as Simon tipped the contents of two leather saddle bags onto the ground and the men scavenged through the items. She was sure they were the bags she had seen him take from Salisbury.

  ‘What in God’s name?’ spat Guiraud who held aloft a wooden spiked object.