The Order of the Lily

by Catherine A. Wilson

  ‘I don’t deserve a second chance.’

  ‘Can I help you, my son?’ A gentle hand pressed upon his shoulder. The serene face of an aging monk peered at him from under a cowl.

  ‘I should not be here. I have long turned my heart away from God.’

  ‘A good man will always find his way back to God, no matter the circumstance.’

  ‘I might not be a good man.’

  ‘No? Then perhaps you should tell me why not.’ The monk pushed back his hood and sat beside him.

  Opening his soul for the first time in many years, Simon retold the story of his wife, Amina and son, Rassaq. ‘I could no longer believe in a God who would condone the death of an innocent child, just because he was an infidel,’ Simon admitted.

  ‘Then you are a man of great integrity.’

  ‘No, more that I am a coward.’

  ‘Why do you think such a thing?’

  ‘Because I blame myself,’ Simon replied. ‘I married her against her people’s wishes. I was stubborn and pig-headed. I know now that I did not love her but I refused to admit my mistake and once our son was born I would not allow her to leave.’

  ‘You have much to regret, my son.’

  ‘I do, for they were both killed the moment my back was turned.’

  They sat in silence, the old man reflecting on the younger’s distress.

  ‘Many men sin but feel no guilt, so suffer no pain. Your loss is great and your sorrow deep. Do you not think that is penance enough?’

  ‘I should have paid with my own life.’

  ‘But you did not, nor can you continue to punish yourself, for your soul will wither and die long before your body decays with age,’ the monk replied. ‘Now you say you are newly married; does this not bring you joy?’

  ‘It does, but I do not deserve her.’

  ‘Perhaps God chose you for this very reason.’

  ‘But we have far to go and I fear that she is not strong enough.’

  ‘You will always have far to travel, my son, but you need to look forward, to the road in front of you, rather than over your shoulder at the many bumps behind.’ The monk rose slowly, his legs stiff with age, patted Simon’s back in a fatherly fashion and shuffled away towards the cloisters.

  Simon returned to Catherine’s bedside, pleased to discover that she was neither quite so hot nor so flushed. Even then it was another two weeks until his wife was well enough to travel.

  The weather did not improve, to which Catherine’s chapped skin and chilblained fingers could attest. Wrapped in blankets she lay in the back of the canopied cart, dozing peacefully as they meandered across the French countryside. Simon sat up front with Armand, the two talking animatedly, and both laughed on several occasions. She assumed that her husband’s mood had improved.

  Catherine shivered and drew her coverings close, but a corner of one was trapped beneath the travelling chest. As she tugged it free a leather cylinder rolled towards her. Catherine knew that Simon kept his important documents therein, but the ties had worked loose and the contents jostled to be released. She meant to secure it but was gripped by the urge to peer inside. Surreptitiously she reached in and removed the uppermost piece of parchment, smoothing it under the cover of her cloak.

  It was the illumination that Simon had extracted from Salisbury. A large letter L in the centre had been decorated with gold. Red tendrils weaved their way across the page to cover the original depiction, which looked to be a sword of plain appearance. Seven white lilies were scattered throughout, but it lacked depth and colour and appeared to be an unfinished work. Resisting the urge to gasp aloud, her eyes widened at the recent additions scrawled across the page. In a much darker ink seven names had been added, each one scratched into the surface of an enlarged bract, Martin de Brie, Guiraud d’Albret, Gabriel de Beaumont de l’Oise, Armand-Amanieu d’Albret, Roderick of Shalford and Ghillebert d’Albret. Atop the list was Simon Marshall!

  She stared at the image for some time, sure that this was the very depiction that her husband had wanted the boy at the abbey to identify, the parchment he had hidden from her.

  The cart bumped over a deviation, making her heart jump with fright. Catherine rolled the page and deftly returned it to the cylinder, burying her head into the pillows.

  The mystery did not only involve Simon. All the men in her life and a good many in Cécile’s had been named. What were they up to and why were their names scrawled across what had been a beautiful illumination?

  ‘It would seem my spies are better than yours,’ boasted Joan Holland, pushing into his room without knocking, ‘for I received word our quarry is in Paris. Yet I find you here, face down on a whore!’

  Salisbury turned from the young woman beneath him and pulled the sheet up to his waist.

  Joan’s eyes travelled to the very thing he had covered and he smiled conceitedly. ‘Wine?’ She waited until the maid hurriedly departed with tatty chemise and gown in hand. ‘I thought your taste lent itself elsewhere?’

  ‘When you have little coin you must endure that which you can afford.’

  She turned up her nose and sat at the small side table, waiting while he dressed.

  ‘If you want me to ride to Paris you will have to provide me with funds,’ Salisbury continued.

  ‘You have enough for a prostitute!’

  ‘I caught her rifling through my purse. She elected pleasure over pain,’ he explained as he donned his shirt

  ‘So I have interrupted your punishment. I apologise.’

  ‘Have no thought. It was not pleasurable. I would have preferred the alternative.’

  Ignoring his comment she waited for him to sit opposite. ‘I have learned that Lord Wexford did not proceed directly to Paris, but instead spent time at Corbie Abbey.’

  Salisbury’s face was blank.

  ‘Does it not seem a little more than coincidence that he should choose to take his new bride to one of the largest scrip-toria in France?’ chided Joan.

  ‘The Lady,’ he spat.

  ‘He seeks to identify the author of the illumination.’

  ‘Yes, for they would lead him directly to her! So, what now?’

  Joan leaned forward, her smile tinged with malicious intent. ‘Question Catherine. Find out what she knows and what she has told her husband.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Do what you will,’ she sneered.

  ‘What makes you think Wexford can find the Lady?’

  ‘I don’t, but one thing I know without doubt. If he is anything like his uncle, then we have a great deal to fear from my new son-by-marriage.’

  Simon, Catherine and their escorts came to rest alongside a high, crenellated wall, the length of which continued endlessly into the darkness, turrets spaced along its distance.

  At the intersection ahead the traffic had come to a halt and a large contingent of soldiers stood idly by. None were directing the mayhem. Simon veered the cart off the road under cover of a high, stone arch that housed two enormous oak doors. Roderick, Armand and the men followed behind.

  Simon pulled down on a woven cord and waited. His gaze, though, darted to the moving throng in the street. A small hatch slid back from a spyhole, the man on the opposite side conversing with Lord Wexford in a language Catherine did not recognise. A loud thud ensued as the heavy wooden doors opened and they were quickly ushered inside.

  Though it was dark, she could distinguish the outlines of numerous buildings around them. There appeared to be a large church to the left and a most impressive tower in the centre, with various covered pathways leading to the main entrance.

  ‘Lord Wexford, I am to accompany you to your accommodation.’ The short man was humbly dressed, wearing a white robe tied around the waist with a black sash. ‘We have taken the liberty of preparing the guest wing for you and your travelling party.’

  ‘Please convey my thanks to the Grand Master for his consideration.’

  The escort nodded. ‘I will do so my Lord.’


  They were conducted to a square building, one side of which was attached to the chapter house. They ascended the spiral stairs of the tower to the second floor, whereupon their guide stepped aside to present a reception room with sleeping quarters situated at either end. A fire was lit, the place warm and inviting, and a tray of victuals had been set out on the table.

  ‘They were expecting us,’ declared Catherine as she removed her cloak.

  ‘They were,’ confirmed Simon, closing the door on the departing consort. ‘Sit and I will explain.’

  Catherine poured the wine and savoured the rich liquid, waiting expectantly for what was to come.

  ‘Do you know this place?’ he asked her.

  ‘Judging by the “agnus dei” inside the gate, I would have to assume it is connected to the Templars.’

  ‘The lamb and chalice is the representation of the Holy Jesus carrying the weight of the cross,’ he explained, tossing his doublet over the ornate timber chair. ‘This is the Parisian headquarters of the Templar Knights. Do you recall me telling you about them?’

  ‘Yes, and their ugly demise on Friday the thirteenth of October.’

  ‘Then you will remember that it was the Templars who encouraged me to travel to the East and learn the art of healing?’

  ‘Where you met Amina?’ she interjected.

  ‘Yes. But I was also fortunate to meet many other notable individuals and one in particular, whom I would like you to see whilst we are in Paris.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by Armand and his men, whose laughter and boisterous behaviour echoed through the narrow building. They were at ease, comfortable and able to relax their guard, something that had been impossible whilst travelling the roads to the capital.

  Catherine was suddenly aware of how little she knew of them and their backgrounds, and the relationships that existed between them. The six men supping obviously knew each other well, but were more reserved and never spoke of serious matters in her company. Each time she had witnessed them, heads bowed and deep in conversation, they believed she was asleep or occupied elsewhere. Her gaze slipped to the leather cylinder haphazardly discarded along with her husband’s cloak. Catherine rose from the table and excused herself. She made her way to the smallest of the two sleeping rooms and pushed the door behind her, making sure not to completely close it. The bed dominated the space and left little room for anything else. She removed her cloak and sat beneath the drapes and waited patiently. She had to provide them with sufficient time, without creating suspicion. She had to know. Would the nature of their talk alter once she was no longer present?

  Tiptoeing to the door, she peered through the gap. She could see them quite clearly, their shoulders hunched, heads lowered, and they spoke in whispered tones. As she changed her position Catherine could just see Simon’s cloak and cylinder, the latter open and the contents removed.

  She sat back upon the bed and considered the possibilities, but knew she was right. They were deliberately keeping something from her. She adjusted her skirt, drew back the door and walked purposefully to her place at the table. Mouse laughed heartily and slapped Guiraud on the back as Simon skilfully retrieved a number of parchments. Armand immediately rose and stepped in front of her, taking her fingers and bringing them to his lips. His smile was genuine, but she knew he was creating a diversion. They did not want her to see the sword illumination, which had now been secreted away.

  The banter continued into the evening but, unable to com-pete with their camaraderie, Catherine retired to her sleeping quarters. Simon’s chest had not been placed beside hers at the foot of the bed and she was unsure if this pleased her or not. The idea of privacy after weeks on the road with six men was welcome. Yet the thought of Simon’s absence left her empty and confused. Then again, sharing one room and one bed with your new husband was a daunting thought. She felt safe when the men were but a stone’s throw away, sprawled across the floor beside her or camped around a fire. If Simon chose to occupy her chamber, they would be alone for the first time in their marriage. Her heart raced but she could not decide whether it was with anticipation or trepidation. Yet one thing was clear. She was no longer frightened.

  Catherine woke alone the following morning, refreshed and feeling in better health than she had for some time. She broke her fast with Simon, then eagerly accepted his offer to escort her around the Templar complex.

  Her husband’s knowledge of their architecture and art was astounding. ‘The emblem of the seal, depicting two knights astride one horse, appears on or near all of these buildings,’ he explained, ‘but it is not always so easy to identify as the Templars utilised symbolism on many levels. If you look along the sides of the paths about the gardens, you will see that they are lined by seven trees on each side of the seven archways leading to the church,’ he explained. ‘The Templars believe that the number seven is associated with perfection and, therefore, incorporate it whenever they can.’

  Catherine recalled the hidden parchment. Seven white lilies with seven names! Perhaps the illumination was far more important than she realised. ‘I thought the Templars had been outlawed,’ she said as they turned towards the chapter house.

  ‘They have. This complex is now under the control of the King and the Knights Hospitaller.’

  ‘And why do we visit here?’

  ‘I have a task that must be completed and you have an appointment with a great physician.’

  ‘I have? Why?’

  ‘You have been unwell and your sister has an asthmatic illness. I do not wish for your conditions to linger.’

  Catherine nodded. If it meant that she could help Cécile, then she would not complain.

  ‘We are to meet with the Grand Master later today and Nicholas Flamel on the morrow.’

  ‘Thank you, Simon.’ She smiled.

  As the sun fell behind the great wall, Simon, Catherine, Armand and Roderick were shown to the Master’s house on the far side of the grounds. Catherine waited to be called forward, fascinated by the opulence of the building, for it was courtly rather than religious. They spoke quietly amongst themselves for several minutes until announced.

  As Catherine stepped through the doorway, she was struck by a sense of reverence, even though the gentleman was a soldier and not a man of God. His face was round, his eyes slightly protruding and his stature small compared to Simon.

  ‘Lady Wexford, at last we meet.’

  ‘Grand Master, it is a great honour,’ she began.

  Lord Bertrand du Guesclin’s name was familiar for he was well known to the French and had been held in high esteem by Anaïs and many of the other maids in the kitchen at Denny Abbey.

  ‘Have you enjoyed your visit to Paris? Is she all that you imagined?’ he asked.

  ‘I have seen little but what I have glimpsed greatly impresses me.’

  ‘Now you are married you have no intention of returning to the convent and Lady Pembroke?

  ‘No, I do not think so.’

  ‘I see. You have not received any news of her or how she fares?’

  Catherine shook her head, perplexed by his odd questions, yet was acutely aware of the stinging guilt, for she realised she had spared little thought for her benefactress or anyone at Denny since her departure.

  ‘Thank you. You may leave,’ he directed.

  Catherine stood motionless, confused.

  ‘You may leave now,’ Bertrand reiterated.

  ‘All is well, Catherine. Return to our quarters,’ instructed Simon.

  Catherine stood alone in the darkening reception area and watched as the men walked through the open doors at the opposite end of the chamber. Their conversation continued as they turned down a connecting hallway.

  She had intended to do as she was told, until she noted the open door to her right. Catherine entered silently and made her way over to a large desk overflowing with books, manuscripts and parchments. She shifted the contents tentatively, and something caught her eye. On a corner of a sheet the Plantag
enet coat of arms nestled within the clutter. Sliding it out carefully so as to not dislodge the others, she hurriedly glanced over the contents, but was unable to ascertain its relevance. Stuck almost to its rear was another far more telling script. It had been written by three different hands. The original author, unknown to her, had scrawled a short message across the top in Latin. Unfortunately, she had not been a good scholar and struggled to read the inscription.

  The main body of the document was written in French, and began by describing a great battle fought in Scotland, yet she could not concentrate to read it in entirety. Her eye had been captured by the footnote, for beneath it one sentence had been scrawled and signed in a hand she knew well.

  I have spoken with her and am sure she knows nothing.

  On this, I give you my solemn word.

  Ghillebert d’Albret.

  Voices in the corridor startled her from her trance. Simon and the Grand Master were returning. With no escape possible, she slid behind the arras.

  ‘You have had ample opportunity.’

  ‘Yes, Grand Master, but I have been much engaged,’ replied Simon.

  ‘But not in the manner I had hoped.’

  ‘There have been complications.’

  ‘Complications are meant to test, not delay. Time is of the essence. It will not be long before King David of Scotland capitulates and I fear he will bargain a kingdom to ensure his financial freedom.’ Bertrand paused, his gaze falling to a large tapestry on the wall. ‘We need this matter contained or rebellion will ensue.’

  ‘Yes, Grand Master,’ answered Simon.

  ‘The sooner you take command of the Lady, the better.’

  Both men stared at the image, and then continued down the corridor in silence, their footsteps echoing on the intricate tiles laid out in uniform pattern.

  Catherine could not leave without looking upon what her husband had been studying. She hurriedly entered the corridor and found the picture in question. It was a typical image of a battle scene, the bloodied bodies of men strewn across a field, arrows and shields, lances and daggers. The setting was plain, the vanquished dressed in armour and the victors in kilts, their leader astride a white stallion, his sword held high for all to see. Catherine started. It was the very same weapon depicted in the illumination!