The Order of the Lily

by Catherine A. Wilson

  Several soldiers mounted beside him, one handing him a large, leather-bound book. ‘The register, M’lord.’

  Salisbury flipped open the hefty volume and perused the last page. Satisfied with his find he secured the precious item to his saddle.

  ‘Where to, M’lord?’ inquired the sergeant-at-arms.

  ‘Take half the men and search the outlying areas. I will return to Calais,’ instructed Salisbury. ‘And I want them found as soon as possible.’

  It had taken most of the day for Simon and his companions to reach Corbie and the Abbey dedicated to Saint Peter, the impressive cathedral situated in the centre of the town. The golden stones reflected the last rays of the day, highlighting the beautifully shaped arches and intricate circular work of the gifted stonemasons.

  ‘Sanctuary?’ asked Catherine.

  ‘Yes, sanctuary,’ Simon confirmed as they made their way to the vestry. ‘It is said that this abbey contains many treasures, including a Byzantine painting of the face of Jesus and a frag-ment of the True Cross.’

  ‘Oh, I would dearly love to see them!’

  ‘Perhaps it might be wise to ask the Abbot for refuge, warm pottage and spare clothing first. What say you?’

  ‘Yes of course,’ she replied, somewhat distracted as her eyes travelled over the carvings adorning the walls.

  ‘Corbie also claims to have the finest library in France, some say in all of Christendom. Perhaps we might convince them to allow us a viewing?’ Simon’s wink was conspiratorial as he wandered over to the stout monk who was extinguish-ing candles on the altar.

  Catherine was housed within one of the many separate dormitories and was offered fresh clothing and a much-needed bath. Several younger monks carried the heavy tub into the lodgings and filled it with steaming water.

  Simon gallantly excused himself, claiming the need to ensure that Roderick, Armand, Guiraud, Mouse and Gabriel were receiving the same hospitality.

  Catherine lowered herself into the water and allowed the feeling of pleasure to wash over her. As a child such indulgence would have been punished. Besides, the water would have been tepid and dirty. Being the youngest member of the convent she was always the last to wash. But this was delightful, bordering on sinful.

  Catherine slipped below the surface and submerged her hair. She had never fully understood the sacrifice of giving oneself to the church. Sacrifice came from knowing pleasure and willingly putting it aside. As she had never known luxury, there was nothing to miss. But then Simon had entered her world, and slowly and subtly encouraged her to experience that which she never had, fresh new gowns, enticing hot meals. And then he had wrapped his arms around her, gathered her to him, and kissed her. The memory ignited a flame that made her skin tingle. There would certainly be much to sacrifice now.

  Catherine was drying her hair in front of the fire when Simon returned. ‘The gown is a little large but clean and warm,’ she said, ‘and I have been provided with a very serviceable pair of boots.’ She pointed out her foot to show him.

  ‘Excellent. Tomorrow we will purchase additional items. Until then you will have to make do.’ He smiled, the effect causing her heart to skip erratically. ‘The boys will join us soon for supper.’

  ‘Tariq instructed me to keep the wound on my shoulder dry but between the rain and my bath I’m afraid I have not been very successful,’ she confessed.

  ‘You had best show me.’ Simon kneeled beside her and slid the gown from her shoulder.

  ‘Perhaps we should return at a more convenient moment, lads?’ said Roderick, pushing open the chamber door.

  Catherine’s cheeks coloured but neither she nor Simon responded, his attention now firmly upon the wound.

  ‘’Tis dry now, but not healed. I will take the stitches out in due course.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied, sharply recovering her exposed skin.

  Armand, Guiraud and Mouse filed into the room and helped themselves to the tray of victuals.

  ‘So, what to do?’ enquired Mouse.

  ‘I assume you will go on to Paris,’ replied Simon.

  ‘Oui. I think we should go ahead as planned,’ Armand answered, handing Catherine a large bowl of hot pottage.

  ‘We may stay here as long as we wish. However, I do not think it wise.’ Simon arched his eyebrows at Catherine. ‘A woman in a monastery is as troublesome as a fox in a hen house!’

  ‘I could stay hidden,’ suggested Catherine.

  ‘I don’t think that will do,’ offered Roderick. ‘Your presence has been noted and it will not be long before tongues are wagging. Monks they may be but saints they are not.’

  ‘One woman travelling with six men is noteworthy enough,’ added Simon.

  The conversation moved on to the state of the roads, the best route to Paris and then the health of Bertrand du Guesclin.

  Gabriel appeared, grasping two jugs of wine and sat down beside Catherine.

  ‘You are so much like your sister that I am surprised each time I see you. Cécile captured my heart and I had hoped, for a time … but alas, it was not to be. She was much engaged with Gillet and now I find that you are married. My friends have been most fortunate, I think.’

  Catherine smiled shyly. The man beside her seemed genuine in his admiration, and both gentle and considerate.

  ‘If there is ever any need for you to call upon my services, I would be most willing to comply.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, lowering her gaze from his piercing blue eyes. ‘I would like to send a letter to Cécile,’ Catherine suggested, hoping that the request was not too great.

  ‘Of course, I will see to a messenger in the morn.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Catherine drank the remainder of her ale, then sought permission to retire. The bed was in a corner, the heavy damask curtains which would provide her a measure of privacy held back against the posts by thick woven cords. The men’s bedding was stacked against the wall, waiting to be rolled out across the floor, but her companions remained huddled around the table. Catherine climbed atop the straw mattress and released the curtains, then slipped off her boots. The blankets and sheets smelled delightfully of lavender and incense. She removed the rosary from her neck and commenced her prayers, fighting against her weariness. The men were deep in discussion and the droning lulled her until Mouse erupted with a hearty laugh. She jolted awaked, clutching her beads, but in the end nothing could prevent her succumbing to sleep. Roused the following morning by the same booming voice, Catherine was escorted to the kitchen by Simon, who rose somewhat stiffly from the floor beside the fire.

  They entered the refectory and were directed to the main table, currently occupied by numerous monks, all eating in silence.

  ‘I am told that you have asked to see our great library?’ The portly Abbott peered at them as though he lacked good sight and beckoned them to step closer.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Simon enthusiastically.

  ‘Then I will see to it. Is your accommodation suitable?’

  ‘It is excellent. My wife and I would like to express our gratitude, Most Reverend Blaut,’ continued Simon.

  ‘Your father was a great friend to this church. You are always welcome here, my son.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Now, break your fast and I will have Louis meet you here shortly.’

  Catherine sat opposite Simon and recited her morning prayers. She was relieved and pleasantly surprised when her husband joined in. Respectful of the daily religious rituals of Corbie Monastery, neither spoke as they partook of the freshly baked bread, smoked herring and cheese.

  Catherine gazed around the room. It was small but beautifully constructed with a vaulted timber ceiling, nothing like the Norman-style refectory at Denny which had been built in stone and roofed in slate. Denny was cold and austere whereas Corbie was cosy and inviting. She was startled from her thoughts as a young man approached them. Her heart went out to him when she saw his deformed face.

  ‘Lo
rd Wexford?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Simon, pushing away his bowl. ‘You must be Louis.’

  ‘Oui. Come … come,’ he spat through malformed lips, the hole below his nose causing a great whistling of air. ‘You want to see?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon rising from the table, ‘I am most interested in the work you do and, in particular, your illuminations.’

  ‘Illuminations?’ cried Catherine. Simon ignored her and strode after Louis.

  ‘I show, I show,’ offered Louis as he directed them through a large doorway that opened into an enormous room. Catherine could barely see the low-beamed ceiling, so dark was the interior. Row upon row of elevated desks stretched from one end to the other, shelf after shelf stacked high with books, manuscripts and rolls of parchment.

  ‘Sit here to paint,’ Louis explained, clambering onto a stool.

  Catherine stretched up to view the parchment on the wooden platform and was immediately enchanted by the detail.

  ‘An illumination is a painting, usually of a religious scene, which has been decorated with gold or silver,’ explained Simon, as he wandered up and down the rows of desks, examining the work laid out upon them. ‘Each piece is normally part of a larger project, a book or bible. They say that every painter has his own method or artistic signature and, in fact, a group, such as the one here, can develop an individual style that sets it aside from all others.’

  ‘I see,’ she mouthed, as her gaze travelled to the work adorning the walls.

  ‘There are some, like young Louis, who can ascertain where a piece was painted and, most likely, identify the craftsman, just by examining it.’

  ‘Oui, oui, Louis can,’ boasted the boy.

  ‘And these are all illuminations?’ Catherine asked, pointing to the hundreds of parchments awaiting completion lying around the gloomy cavern.

  ‘Oui, all.’

  Head bent low, Simon engaged the young monk in conversation as Catherine meandered towards the rear of the scriptorium.

  The shelves under the archway were covered in dust and cobwebs, the flagstone floor worn flat over the years. She teased out several pages and examined the images, each one beautifully drawn and inked with a talent far superior to those she had seen at Denny. Blowing the dust from a darker vellum, she detached the securing band and carefully unrolled the document. Though the detail of the Christ painting was beautiful, the lettering was completely foreign and like none she had ever seen. Many of the nearby leather-bound books also contained the same evenly spaced script. Determined to ask Louis about her find, she made her way back to the centre of the room. Catherine rounded one of the pillars and sighted the two men poring over a large, open book. Simon’s stance was rigid, as though he were displeased. She watched as he withdrew a piece of calfskin from his doublet and spread it out before Louis. It was the very same piece she had seen passed from man to man only two days earlier.

  Catherine stepped back into the shadows and crept behind the tall bookshelf until she was close enough to hear their conversation.

  ‘Non, do not know.’

  ‘Are you certain,’ questioned Simon, ‘for it looks to be the work of an illuminator from this Abbey?’

  ‘No, no, not from here,’ repeated Louis.

  ‘This is not a religious image. Do you accept payment for commissioned work?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Sometimes,’ spluttered the boy.

  ‘Have you ever seen anything like this?’

  ‘Non, non, non. This painted by a woman,’ he declared, backing away from the threatening man beside him.

  Catherine grasped the scroll in her hands and walked towards her exasperated guardian. ‘I was wondering, Louis, if you could tell me of this script, for I have never seen anything like it.’

  Her interruption brought relief to the boy’s face. He took the piece from Catherine, but her eye had caught the movement as Simon hastily retrieved his parchment.

  ‘Carolingian minuscule,’ Louis explained.

  ‘It is lovely,’ replied Catherine. ‘And the picture of Christ is most beautiful. Do you paint only religious subjects?’

  Simon stepped between his wife and the monk. ‘I am sure Louis is very busy. Now, perhaps we might view the relics,’ he suggested as he took hold of Catherine’s elbow and directed her out of the scriptorium.

  Cécile smiled as she watched Gillet from her casement. He was exercising the Andalusian horse in the arena below. Horse and master were learning to work together and Cécile was proud of Gillet’s skill and patience. He called to the steed and held out his hand. Stallion and man stared at one another before Goblin snorted and went to him.

  Cécile leaned against the woodwork, a wistful expression softening her face. Her hand swept over her belly. One day it would be Gillet’s child she carried and she would be looking out the window of their home in Bellegarde to watch him work. Her gaze drifted back to the man below and she sucked in her breath. Gwynedd emerged from the shadows, her smile all sweetness and honey. Words were indistinguish-able but Gillet threw back his head and laughed. Cécile grew more disconcerted when Llewellyn’s daughter picked up a brush from the wooden bucket nearby and began to help him groom the horse. Panic swept through Cécile as she watched them. When the time came for abstinence, would Gillet take a casual mistress during her confinement? She stared at the raven-haired beauty below and swallowed uneasily. He would not have to look far.

  Cécile withdrew from the window and sighed as she picked up Catherine’s letter. Finally news of her sister had arrived, telling of the brave rescue by Simon and how they were on their way to Paris. Paris. Cécile closed her eyes and summoned a vision of the cobblestone streets, the merchants’ houses crowding the Pont au Change and the colourful markets of Les Halles. Tears slid down her cheeks. ‘Oh, for the love of …!’ She dashed them away. ‘What is wrong with you, Cécile?’ She glanced at the letter again and the feeling of desertion grew stronger. Gillet was always busy, Catherine had married Simon and even Armand had forgotten her. No one needed her. She laid down on her pillow and let the tears come.

  Cécile awoke with a start, sensing she was not alone. She raised her head to find Gillet sitting beneath the window reading Catherine’s letter. He looked up, his face rigid. ‘And when did you think to inform me of this? Simon marries your sister and you say nothing? What was he thinking?’

  She rose and snatched the parchment from his hand, hurt by his accusation. ‘You read my letters now? That is private! And I would have told you sooner, only I have not seen you.’ Prodded by jealousy, she added, ‘You are too busy preening in the yard with Gwynedd.’

  ‘Gwynedd? What has she to do with this?’

  ‘Nothing. Everything! First Catherine runs back to France, then Simon follows, then Armand. And you … you are always busy with Gwynedd.’

  ‘Armand? Are you saying Armand returned to France for Catherine? Please do not tell me my cousin dares to seduce your sister right under Simon’s nose?’

  ‘Well, why not?’ retorted Cécile, thoroughly peeved Gillet had missed her point. ‘It seems everyone is running around after Catherine! If I so much as go off half-cocked I get a King’s speech but Catherine plays the heroine and has everyone chasing after her. And I thought you didn’t like the idea that Simon married her? Now you protect him from Armand? Well, you need not worry. Armand would not bother!’

  ‘Oh? And why not?’

  ‘Because my sister is not to Armand’s taste.’

  ‘And you would know so much about that, I suppose.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do. Armand and I grew up together, remember?’

  Gillet put the letter down. ‘How could I forget? You remind me often enough.’

  ‘Do not misunderstand me, Gillet. I love my sister with all my heart, and from what I see Simon is a good choice for her. Anyway, Armand needs someone more vibrant, who will keep pace with him, someone like …’

  ‘Someone like you?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose. Compared to my sis
ter, someone more like me.’

  Gillet’s eyes darkened. ‘I said someone like you. It seems to me that you have kept him to yourself for years now.’

  ‘That’s absurd!’

  ‘Really? Clearly it bothers you now that Armand is in France with Catherine and not here, with you.’

  ‘That is ridiculous! What are you saying? Armand asked me to marry him once and I refused.’

  ‘And why did you, Cécile? As I recall, you were also considering a convent at that time.’

  ‘Yes, but that was different. They were willing to take me even though I was no longer … no longer … a maid.’

  ‘As was Armand.’

  Cécile became flustered under his attack and began to pace. ‘Yes, but he … I thought that he … I thought …’

  ‘You refused him because Edward had seduced you.’

  Cécile spun around. ‘Yes! I thought Armand deserved a maiden bride!’ She caught the look on Gillet’s face. Too late, like a bewildered rabbit she felt the trap spring.

  ‘But,’ glowered Gillet, ‘soiled goods were acceptable to a man whom you thought to be a mere courier.’

  Cécile reddened but she stood her ground. ‘If the courier were to gain rank and prosper, he could choose to overlook my misfortune, yes. But I never expected it from a man already knighted.’

  Her barb struck home and Gillet closed his eyes. ‘Forgive me, Cécile,’ he whispered. ‘What I said was uncalled for.’

  ‘Gillet,’ she trod softly towards him, ‘why are we arguing?’

  He let out his breath slowly. ‘I am unsure. I just know that I was caught off-guard learning Simon had married Catherine. I came here to tell you Gwynedd has suggested an idea that will allow me the time I need to repair the mill.’

  ‘Gwynedd?’ Cécile felt her stomach tighten again.

  ‘Yes. She has offered to exercise the horses for me so that Griffith and I can be free to fix the mill wheel. I only need to show her some basic riding techniques.’