The Order of the Lily

by Catherine A. Wilson

  ‘I think you’ll find that’s a Pear of Anguish,’ explained Simon.

  ‘For the torture of others or perhaps for personal enjoyment,’ smirked Armand.

  ‘Well I wouldn’t fancy that thing stuck up my arse,’ declared Mouse. ‘Don’t know how anybody would think that enjoyable.’

  ‘There are some who prefer the sharp prod of metal over the soft touch of a women,’ said Simon, who passed Armand an unrolled piece of parchment.

  Catherine watched intently as the manuscript was passed from man to man. It looked like an illuminated page, the coloured ink visible even in the dim light, though she could not make out the image. Each companion examined it at length before Simon rolled it carefully and placed it inside his doublet. The discussion continued as they approached the fire, Guiraud speaking in a thick French dialect that Catherine could not understand.

  ‘If you are right, the answer lies at Corbie,’ replied Simon, reverting to Norman French.

  ‘I am told that the scroll room is the largest outside Paris,’ offered Armand.

  ‘Let us hope so. If this amounts to nothing, then we may find ourselves visiting your fair capital,’ quipped Simon as he piled Salisbury’s ill-gotten property onto the fire.

  ‘Then, my friend, we will find you entertainment enough to wipe a scowl from even your face.’

  ‘You forget, my brother is a married man,’ clarified Roderick.

  ‘Married, yes,’ guffawed Mouse, ‘but I hardly think he will be entertained at home!’ A ripple of laughter circled the fire.

  Catherine squeezed her lids tightly. In the morning she would speak with her guardian and inform him that she wanted their marriage 'void ab initio.’ She had made a terrible mistake. Instead she would return to England and seek her sister. With her decision made, the suffocating feeling in her chest began to ease.

  ‘This had better be worth my while.’

  Salisbury sneered smugly. ‘I can assure you, my dear, my news will surprise you.’

  ‘Go on then,’ she commanded, sweeping the cloak from her head, long auburn locks cascading across her shoulders.

  ‘I returned to the church only to discover that a marriage had taken place.’

  ‘What? Are you suggesting that Cecily is married?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Salisbury leaned back and took a goodly sip of ale. He waited. For once he had the upper hand and he was going to enjoy it for as long as possible. ‘Sit, M’lady and join me.’

  ‘I did not ride out to this disgusting little inn to share watered down goat’s piss with you,’ she spat.

  ‘I thought perhaps you might like to drink to Lady Holland’s future happiness.’ He paused. ‘Or should that be Lady Wexford?’

  ‘Cecily married Wexford?’

  ‘No, she did not.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Salisbury smiled. He had her off guard and his pleasure was great. ‘Catherine married Wexford.’

  ‘What? Catherine married Wexford!’ she repeated incredulously. ‘That means …’

  ‘As I suspected,’ Salisbury interrupted, ‘Cecily was never the prisoner at Calais Castle. It was Catherine all along.’

  ‘Then where is Cecily?’

  ‘I think we must assume that she is in Kent with her lover.’

  The noblewoman swore a string of expletives that would shock those who thought they knew her. ‘I cannot deal with Cecily whilst she is in England! This situation needs to be finalised and swiftly.’ She sat opposite him and reached for his tankard. ‘Yet I am intrigued. What reason would they have to change places?’

  Salisbury watched as she drank down the remainder of his ale. She never ceased to surprise him and even now he could see the many possibilities of their situation travelling across her face.

  ‘The prince does not know they’re identical,’ she whispered. A vicious smile played at her lips.

  ‘No,’ agreed Salisbury. ‘He addressed her as Cécile.’

  ‘Then we must let Edward continue to believe their deception, at least for now. I don’t want him rushing off to Kent.’

  ‘No, not now you are warming his sheets,’ Salisbury sniggered. ‘But what if he discovers our ruse?

  ‘When you bring back the body of Lady Wexford you will have no problem passing it off as her wayward sister,’ she stated. ‘Catherine is, after all, still in France, is she not?’

  ‘Yes, travelling with her husband and four companions.’

  ‘Then I suggest you hunt them down and remedy my predicament. And get that manuscript back!’

  Salisbury stiffened. She had severely berated him when he had, under duress, admitted to the loss.

  ‘I am sure Wexford will recognise the significance of the image. And now he knows that you, too, hunt the same prize.’

  Salisbury bowed from the waist. Two could play these games. He smiled at Joan. ‘As always, I am at your service, Lady Holland.’

  ‘So, what did you discover?’ Cécile peeked out the shutters, impatient for Veronique’s arrival. The sky was gloomy, heavy with impending rain and no friendlier than when she had looked ten minutes earlier. If she did not venture downstairs soon then Gillet would leave for the village and she wanted to see him first.

  ‘Merde.’ She struggled to lace up her kirtle and threw a disgusted look at the stomacher lying on her bed. She could no longer wear it. Donning her dark blue surcotte instead, she widened the ties at the side. Even under layers of loose clothing, her condition was becoming noticeable. What would she do when Gillet would no longer be able to look at her without seeing Edward’s child? She inspected a red patch of pimples clustering her chin and grimaced. She had acquired a taste for sweet foods of late and all but heaved at the smell of fish. Cécile glanced out of the casement again and abandoned hope of the maid arriving. She grabbed her pattens and sped downstairs.

  She found Gillet leaning against the mantel in the hall, scowling as he pared beneath his fingernails with his blade. His bruises had faded and, unlike hers, his skin glowed with health. His hair fell in glossy waves and when he lifted a log to put it on the fire, the muscles beneath his fresh batiste shirt rippled with renewed strength and vitality. He had taken to wearing his gamboised chausses again, the quilted padding more suited to his vigorous labour around the estate. In short, thought Cécile, his time in Chilham had served him well. He was at the peak of physical condition. His expression, however, suggested a mental discontent.

  ‘Those must be heavy thoughts that weigh upon you, milord,’ observed Cécile, dropping her wooden pattens at the door.

  Gillet looked up and smiled. He sheathed his dagger and indicated two places set at the board. ‘I am mulling over the errands I must accomplish this morning.’ He lifted the cover from a platter. ‘Herring?’

  Cécile pinched her nose and, shaking her head, pointed to the loaf. ‘May I come with you?’

  ‘I am afraid, lady mine, you would find it much too dull for your taste, and would construct mischief in your boredom.’ He filled his plate with the salted fish. ‘I have to see the blacksmith. I need new pins to replace the ones broken at the mill, and I must make good my account to the tailor if you want your new gowns. Besides, it looks like rain.’

  ‘Was the damage to the mill serious?’

  ‘A large post was rammed into the wheel, snapping three pins. A fourth has since broken under the strain. Not serious but incapacitating.’

  ‘I think you enjoy playing lord of the manor,’ mused Cécile, watching his hearty appetite.

  Gillet stretched out his feet beneath the table and sighed. ‘For the first time in a long while, I am content,’ he admitted. ‘I have a strong roof over my head, warm food in my belly,’ he grinned suddenly, ‘and a woman to bed at will. You scold me for this?’

  A tiny pout curled her lips. ‘I would be more than a mistress to you, Gillet.’

  He frowned in reply. ‘To gain permission to marry, I must step back into France, and neither prince is too pleased with me at the present
time. We must be patient.’

  ‘And when you are acquitted of this Jacquerie charge, what then?’

  ‘I will be recalled.’ The look of a warrior, the longing of a soldier, filtered through his dark eyes. ‘Bertrand du Guesclin hopes to bring my case before the Dauphin and, if he is successful, my superior will expect my immediate return to duty.’

  ‘You will leave me?’ Cécile’s head jerked but Gillet smiled and brushed the tip of her nose with his finger.

  ‘I will have no choice, so be grateful for your current boredom, Lady Shrew. I have decided to offer Griffith the position of my squire,’ he added, changing the subject.

  Cécile sat up, surprised. ‘Llewellyn’s son from the stable? Is he not a little old for a squire?’

  ‘He is of an age when most are accepting their knighthood but it can be a great advantage to have an older squire at your side in battle,’ replied Gillet. ‘He is honest, hardworking, healthy, and is no stranger to weaponry. Llewellyn ap Ynyr has served this family well and I would be glad to afford his son this honour. In fact, I think Trefor would make a fine page for you.’

  ‘You think so highly of this Welsh family, then?’

  ‘Must you utter “Welsh” like it is an offering of umble pie?’

  ‘Well, I daresay you mean to do what you will,’ grumbled Cécile, incensed at his championing. ‘As you have expressed previously and quite clearly, I have no right to meddle in your affairs.’

  ‘No, you do not.’ He grinned. ‘I am your lord and you shall obey me. Turn around.’ Wondering if he was testing her, she swivelled obediently. He reached beneath her surcotte at the neckline and, withdrawing the loose laces of her gown, began to tie them. ‘A good squire knows his duty is to serve and protect his master, first and foremost,’ he continued, ‘and that includes his possessions, armour, horses, and,’ the knot pulled taut, ‘his lady. I should be at ease knowing you do not object to the man I would put in this position, for he will be required to move into the manor to serve me, and at times bear messages to you.’

  ‘Since he is to protect your side in combat, I shall abide by your wisdom,’ she capitulated.

  ‘Excellent! And it comes to mind, as you cannot dress yourself properly, that I have been remiss in assigning you a maid. I think …’

  ‘Minette!’ she squealed, clutching his arm, suddenly fearful he was about to promote the entire Welsh clan to their chambers. ‘Poor Veronique has been run ragged between Margot and me, and I took the liberty of questioning her about suitable girls,’ she babbled. ‘I was waiting to discuss this with you. Veronique assures me Minette would be perfect.’

  ‘The blacksmith’s daughter, I remember.’ He nodded approvingly. ‘Very well.’ The sound of heavy rain thudded onto the roof. ‘No sense in riding out in this,’ sighed Gillet, pushing away his empty plate. ‘How would you like a lesson in money instead?’

  As chequered boards and dice began to fill the tables in the hall, Gillet and Cécile retired to the manor’s solar, specifically set aside for the private use of the Lord’s family. Gillet threw a log onto the fire before joining Cécile at the table. He produced a small leather bag and sorted through the coins until he had a variety of designs.

  ‘Do you know how many I have here?’ he asked.

  Cécile rolled her eyes. ‘I can count, Gillet. I just don’t know the value of them!’

  ‘Right, well these are English denominations.’ He pointed to the top row. ‘The pound, the mark, the shilling, the penny, and the groat.’ His index finger hovered above the next row, select-ing each in turn. ‘And these belong to our beloved France, the livre tournois, the livre parisi, and the French crown. There are many more available – the ecu, the noble, the cavalier, and so on. Every time a king gets it into his head to mint a new design, another comes into circulation. The problem is how to match them all with equivalence. For this purpose, each is awarded a value called a “ducat” and all you have to do is render all the values to ducats to know which coin to give.’

  Cécile nodded obligingly, fascinated at this new realm of commerce.

  ‘For example,’ he continued, sliding one forward, ‘the English pound is worth about six hundred ducats, the mark, one hundred and twenty-five, and the livre tournois, one hundred and thirty-three.’

  Gillet spent the next hour explaining the values, how to convert them and even giving Cécile examples of everyday items of purchase.

  ‘So,’ he said, pleased with her astuteness so far, ‘if you wanted to buy a two pound loaf of bread, how much did I say it was?’

  Cecile smiled knowledgably. ‘One ducat.’

  ‘And if you had the choice of these,’ he separated four coins from the pile, ‘which one would you use?’

  With her elbows planted on the table, and her head cradled by clenched fists, she leaned forward, contemplating, rocking as she pondered.

  ‘Concentrate, and stop wiggling your derrière! Most men think women’s brains are in their …’

  ‘Gillet!’ She pushed the English penny ahead of the others.

  ‘Well done, but had I given you this one,’ he slid another aside, ‘how much would you expect to receive in return?’

  Cécile made her selection and was pleased with Gillet’s approval. ‘Does this mean I can perform my own transactions now?’

  ‘It is not quite that easy, sweetheart,’ warned Gillet. ‘You must learn the difference between honest merchants and those who will steal the money from under your nose. You require a little more training, and need to work with sums in general.’

  ‘But I am not stupid, Gillet.’

  He shook his head adamantly. ‘No, you are not, but stupidity has nothing to do with it. These men are trained to deceive, and you must know numbers well to not fall prey to their game. Sometimes they will have you hear only what they wish for you to hear.’

  Cécile glared at him as though he had grown ass’ ears.

  ‘So Doubting Thomas does not believe me,’ he laughed. ‘Well then, let us put this to the test, shall we? See what you make of this and, be warned, you need to listen and count properly. What number of each type of animal did Moses take onto the ark?’

  ‘That’s too easy, Gillet. Everyone knows it was … ’ Her eyes narrowed and she reconsidered the emphasis he had placed on certain words. ‘No,’ she shook her head, ‘it doesn’t matter how you say it. The number is still two.’

  ‘Aah, but was it? The Bible holds the answer, true, but you are not listening. Hear me again. What number of each type of animal … ’ He repeated his question but quickly Cécile heard that he had placed his emphasis onto ‘number’ and ‘animal,’ but had ignored the word ‘each.’ Here was his trick, and she smiled, sure that she had caught him out.

  ‘Say the first part again, please.’

  Gillet complied with a delphic smile. ‘What number of each type of animal did …’ Cécile held up her hand. ‘No, you are just playing with the words. It changes nothing. Everyone knows it was two, a male and a female for procreation.’

  ‘Is that your final answer then, two?’ She frowned as he picked up her hand and kissed her knuckles. ‘Then I have just proved my point, sweetheart. You heard what I wanted you to hear. You did not listen to what I was saying. The correct answer is none.’

  ‘None?’ she spluttered.

  ‘That’s right.’ He winked. ‘Moses did not take any animals onto the ark, Noah did!’

  Grinning into his cup, Gillet took a goodly sip as Cécile’s mouth fell agape.

  ‘That is one kind of deception,’ he continued. ‘Here is another, but be warned, you will need to think. Do you remember how many ducats to a groat?’

  ‘Oui, ten.’

  ‘Good girl. Now, three merchants arrive at L’Hostel de Ville, Arras. After being warned not to fall in the fishpond,’ he paused, his cheeks dimpling as she laughed, ‘they are told by the innkeeper that there is only one room available for thirty ducats. They agree. Prepared to share the room, each merchant places
a groat on the counter, which equals the thirty ducats required. After they have retired to their room, the innkeeper realises he has made a mistake, and that he should have only charged them twenty five, so he calls to the kitchen boy, and tells him to take the change to the three merchants. He gives him five coins worth a ducat each, but the boy realises that he cannot evenly share five coins between three men, so he keeps two. He informs the merchants of the mistake and, none the wiser, the men accept a coin each. Now, the merchants paid ten ducats apiece, and they all have one ducat change. So how many ducats did each pay?’

  ‘Nine,’ exclaimed Cécile. ‘That is no challenge!’

  ‘Ah, so, altogether they paid how much?’

  Cécile rolled her eyes, calculating. ‘Twenty-seven.’

  ‘Good,’ said Gillet, smiling. ‘And the kitchen boy has two ducats, is that not so?’

  ‘Oui, dishonest lad,’ chortled Cécile.

  ‘So twenty-seven and two makes twenty-nine ducats.’ Gillet raised his brows in mock bewilderment. ‘Where is the last ducat? They paid thirty.’

  He laughed as Cécile’s mouth fell open and she stared with disbelief. She promptly began to add it up again. ‘They paid ten, received one back, so only paid nine … by three times, that is twenty-seven and the boy had two …’

  Gillet made no attempt to hide his amusement as he placed another log onto the fire. ‘When you solve it, then you will know yourself ready to face the world of transactions.’ He packed away the money, still clucking. ‘Do not overtax yourself, sweetheart. You are new to this. Here, let me tell you what happened when I rode home from the village the other day.’

  Irritated at having her calculations interrupted, Cécile countered impatiently, ‘What happened, Gill?’

  ‘I was riding home and looked into a neighbouring field to see a squirrel and a piecost fighting.’

  He had her attention as she glanced up. ‘A piecost? What’s a piecost?’

  Gillet slid the last coin over to her, laughing. ‘One ducat.’