The Order of the Lily

by Catherine A. Wilson

  A door slammed in the distance and, lifting her skirt, Catherine dashed back the way she had come, running across the lawn to reach their apartment.

  Back in the Templar office the men raised their cups and drank in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Bertrand moved to the shuttered window, Simon at this shoulder. Both men peered across the expanse, their attention drawn to a fleeing woman, her skirts billowing.

  ‘I believe that is your wife, Lord Wexford.’

  Simon’s cheeks coloured. ‘Yes, Grand Master.’

  Bertrand sipped thoughtfully and raised a brow. ‘It would appear that she is in a great hurry.’

  Simon watched, somewhat amused, as Catherine pushed through a dense hedge, rather than go around the long way. ‘It would.’

  Roderick suppressed his laugh by coughing.

  ‘She is feeling well?’

  ‘It would seem her health is much improved,’ added Armand.

  Simon shot him a look of disgust.

  ‘Perhaps she took fright,’ suggested Bertrand.

  ‘If not now, I imagine she will later,’ whispered Roderick to Armand, the two smiling broadly.

  Simon returned to their quarters in the early hours of the morning, his discussions with the Grand Master taking far longer than anticipated. He intended waiting until she awoke before chastising Catherine for her most unladylike behaviour, but found his temper rising, particularly as she had left a candle burning, the light of which spilled out from under her door.

  She was asleep, her golden locks cascading across the pillow, her rosary entwined around her fingers. The sheet sat just above her waist and as he reached to pull it higher she rolled towards him. The ribbon of her chemise had worked loose and he could clearly see her feminine outline. His throat tightened and his immediate thought was to leave, but he was rendered immobile by desire.

  ‘Simon,’ she whispered and opened her eyes.

  ‘Go back to sleep,’ he mumbled gruffly.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No!’ He had not meant to sound churlish, but she was so damn alluring. ‘What did you do after I left you this evening?’ he demanded.

  ‘Nothing,’ she lied.

  Simon stared at her, unable to believe his ears.

  ‘You did nothing that others would see as out of character for you?’

  Catherine shook her head, though her cheeks were aglow with colour.

  Simon moved across the mattress until he was beside her, his face inches from hers. He placed his right hand on her face, spaced out his fingers and combed them through her hair.

  Catherine closed her eyes. She did not pull away as he had expected but instead lay completely still.

  ‘Then, Lady Wexford, perhaps you could explain this?’

  He had withdrawn from her hair a small green stick that still had leaves attached.

  She said nothing.

  ‘What am I to do with you?’ Simon’s voice softened as his gaze shifted once again to the ribbon at her neck, which had found its way undone. Her chemise lay partially open, taunt-ing him and he was unable to pry his eyes from the swell of her breast, now visible beneath the cotton cover. She was so beautiful.

  Abruptly Simon sat up and stomped from the room. ‘Good night, Lady Wexford.’

  The following morning Catherine, Simon and Gillet’s comrades crossed the square of Nôtre Dame de Paris. Children played within the great arches, ducking, weaving and laughing, as the women chased their disobedient charges. Catherine and Simon left their escorts in the courtyard and entered the Hôtel-Dieu through a door off the garden, into a large room set aside for the making of medicines.

  It was well-lit, the bright sun reflecting off the bare, whitewashed walls and stone floors, causing Catherine to shade her eyes as Simon led her forward.

  ‘Lady Wexford, may I introduce Monsieur Nicholas Flamel, a noted alchemist and my mentor,’ he announced with more than a touch of pride.

  ‘Mademoiselle.’ Flamel bowed, his face a mass of wrinkles, disrupted only by his beak-like nose. He was small in stature and bent, as though very old, yet his eyes twinkled like those of a young man, his voice strong and tinged with authority. ‘I have heard much about you.’

  ‘Monsieur Flamel, I am very pleased to meet you,’ she replied.

  ‘How do you like Paris?’ he asked, ushering them through to an empty chamber.

  ‘It is most beautiful – in fact, much fairer than London.’

  ‘Hmm, I think so, but not the most beautiful, for I have seen better,’ he added, pulling two wooden stools from under the central bench. He gestured for Catherine to take one and seated himself on the other.

  Simon melted into the shadows of the far wall.

  ‘Your sister is unwell, oui?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, she is with child but suffers from breathing attacks.’

  ‘Umm, Simon has told me,’ he said, wrinkling his brow. ‘We have thought hard on this, he and I, for it is difficult to decide on a treatment. You see, my dear, the mind plays tricks on the body and this may be the reason for her affliction. But without knowing exactly when the attacks occurred, we cannot know what was in the heavens at those times.’

  He looked up to the ceiling and her gaze followed, although she saw nothing but stains and traces of mildew. ‘So, I have made a salve that should counter all possibilities. It will need to be administered the minute the lungs become tight. Does she have someone who can be trusted to apply it?’

  ‘Her … ah, husband is a sensible man, I will send him full instructions,’ suggested Simon.

  Flamel rose and grasped Catherine’s wrist. ‘Now, I want to look at you. You are thin,’ he observed, squeezing her shoulder, ‘and you have been unwell. Have you examined this one?’ he asked Simon.

  ‘No, not …’

  ‘Not yet a woman,’ he surmised. The alchemist peered at Catherine. She was quite unprepared for his assault as he reached out and groped at her breast. ‘But not far off, methinks. Not taken yet, oh, no. But quite skittish.’

  Struck dumb by this man’s actions Catherine looked to her husband, for even he had not touched her in such a familiar fashion. She pulled back in surprise, her cheeks colouring, but Flamel was quickly beside her, his face only inches from hers.

  ‘Your eyes,’ he said, placing a finger beneath one and pulling it down, then the same with the other. ‘Strong with sadness,’ he whispered close to her ear while inspecting her skull. He lifted sections of her hair and tugged at them, making Catherine’s eyes smart and her nose wrinkle.

  ‘Good, good, go now,’ said Monsieur Flamel, dismissing her with a finger pointing to the door.

  ‘All is well, Catherine, you can wait outside,’ reassured Simon.

  Catherine took her leave and made for the exit, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Sad, that one, very sad, but she is young and will soon recover. She is ripe, ready for picking. Don’t know what you’re waiting for. Give you lots of sons, very healthy. Needs something to make her sleep and help increase her appetite and I can make just the right mix for you. But you should bed her, for that would fix it, then she would sleep like a baby and eat like a horse,’ he snorted with laughter.

  ‘She is too young for me, and far too naïve,’ Simon replied, recalling the image of her alabaster skin the night before.

  ‘Tut, tut. She may be immature but only because she needs a man.’

  ‘Yes, a young man.’

  ‘You are not old, but in your prime. She will see, she will see,’ laughed Flamel.

  ‘Add nothing to that draught. I am not in need of your pity.’

  ‘What do you take me for, a charlatan? I do not concoct love potions, but I do tell you the truth. I have known you since you were a boy and you have not changed much. Always happy to open your mouth but not willing to shut it,’ he smiled. ‘Do you know what happens to a man who never knows release? Who will not open himself up to another?’

  Simon looked away, unwilling to answer.


  ‘No, you do not know. Well, he bursts!’ he said, laughing wildly. ‘You will explode if you do not let out that seed.’

  ‘I fear that I will hurt her, both physically and mentally.’

  ‘For a supposedly intelligent man, you are stupid,’ he replied.

  ‘You forget, both parties have to be willing, and she is too … too …’

  ‘Too beautiful, too tempting? All maidens feel pain but it is part of the bonding that must occur,’ he said as he began to mix his potion.

  ‘You have changed little,’ grunted Simon. ‘Fornication is still your preferred remedy?’

  ‘Oh, yes, that and gold,’ he said. ‘Have you not noticed that men who are married live far longer than those who are not? My wife is as much responsible for my longevity as my special draught,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Now, give your girl this, mixed in water, twice a day. Remember, be kind and, more importantly, take care not to wound too deeply for the flesh will heal, my son, but the heart is tender.’

  They found Catherine sitting, as requested, just outside the door.

  ‘Take this as your husband directs,’ instructed Nicolas, handing her a large glass vial. ‘I want you to remember that happiness comes from within. It cannot be bought and sold, nor traded with another. Love is the same, for you shall not love another until you love yourself. When you are ready, you will know, for you will have no doubts and hold no fear.’

  Catherine looked into the deep pools of his eyes and blinked, so mesmerised was she by his voice. He hugged her tightly, then kissed her cheek before sending them on their way.

  The group ambled pleasantly back towards the centre of the city, Mouse and Armand following behind. Roderick had begged leave claiming the need to rest, but Catherine believed that he had partaken of an inordinate amount of wine the previous night and was now paying for it.

  The gates to the Templar Palace appeared to open spontaneously upon their arrival, allowing them to slip quickly from the busy street into the serenity within the walls. The men were immediately summoned to the Grand Master’s House, leaving Catherine to wander the gardens. Though the door between Nicholas Flamel’s solar and the corridor had been closed, Catherine had been able to hear snippets of the conversation within. That she was beautiful she most seriously doubted, but of one thing she was sure: her husband cared more for her than she had ever hoped was possible.

  Three days after the fire took the stables, Cécile d’Armagnac, in a fit of rage, began to pack a travelling chest.

  ‘A pox on you, Gillet de Bellegarde. Take your little slut and good riddance! I wish you all the happiness that Hellspawn can deliver.’

  ‘Cécile? What are you doing?’ Margot closed the chamber door and rushed to the bedside.

  Cécile forced her weight against the bulging coffer. She threw it open with impatience, stuffed the overhanging sleeves into the corners and tried again without success. Finally she collapsed onto the oaken chest and burst into a flood of weeping. ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘No!’ Margot turned pasty white. ‘You cannot! You are my only friend here. What would I do?’

  ‘’Tis no good, Margot,’ Cécile sobbed brokenly, ‘he … uh, uh, will never forgive, uh, uh, me.’

  ‘But, where would you go?’

  Cécile trailed her nose inelegantly up her sleeve and dashed at her cheeks. ‘To my sister, wherever she is in France.’

  Margot prised Cécile’s fingers from the chest and pulled her into an embrace. ‘Do not talk such utter rot! You cannot leave in your condition and I do not believe for a minute that Gillet will stay angry with you. You just need to give him some time.’

  ‘There is, uh, uh, no hope. There are some things he will never accept.’ With a resounding honk, she blew her nose on the kerchief offered by Margot.

  ‘But he will, when he knows the truth.’

  ‘The truth?’ wailed Cécile. ‘He cares not about the truth. Gillet will never forgive me for Edward!’

  ‘Edward? Who’s Edward? Come, sit and take some wine with me.’ She led the weeping woman to the chairs beside the hearth. ‘Why should Gillet have grief with you over another man?’

  The two women sat and, by the second full cup, Cécile began to talk. She spoke first of the day she met Gillet and as the wine loosened her tongue, gradually she told it all. Margot listened patiently and joined in Cécile’s tears as her story unfolded.

  ‘I think I begin to understand,’ said Margot. ‘But they do say that time will heal all wounds.’

  ‘Time only mocks me!’

  ‘Running away will solve nothing and, anyway, from what you say Gillet would only come after you.’

  Cécile snorted. ‘No, he would not.’

  Margot smiled mystically. ‘I believe he would. He is using this incident to release pent up feelings. I think you are right in that it concerns Armand and Edward but, Cécile, it seems to me that what Gillet really fights is his own jealousy! Give his anger time to cool and you will find he will come back to you. Meanwhile it cannot hurt if someone were to lay certain facts at his feet concerning Gwynedd.’ Margot set down her wine as she observed Cécile’s yawn. ‘Come, now. You have tired yourself. Let us move the coffer and you take some rest. By tomorrow, things will be brighter. You shall see.’ Together they lifted the chest and placed it in the corner, then Cécile flopped onto the bed. Margot kissed her forehead. ‘Gillet may have vented his spleen at you,’ she whispered fondly, ‘but I will wager, in private, it is tearing at his heart.’

  It was dark when Cécile awoke with a start. A sharp noise had invaded her dream and snapped her back to consciousness. Some ancient instinct warned her to lie still and breathe evenly but her heart pounded with the resolve of a smithy’s hammer. Slowly she lifted her lids a fraction and, as her eyes and ears became attuned to the mortal world, she sensed rather than saw someone leaning over her. She heard the soft plod of footsteps across the rugs and the tell-tale squeak of her door. She hadn’t thought her heart could beat any faster but the sound of an unmistakable hiss sent it into panicked somersaults.

  Gywnedd!

  Cécile slipped out of bed and cracked open her door just enough to see Gwynedd slither into Gillet’s room. Drawn like a moth to a flame, Cécile crept to the entrance of the chamber and positioned herself to observe. Terrified of what she would learn, she could not stop herself. She had to know whether or not the girl’s visit was expected.

  She watched as Gwynedd placed a log onto the fire and poked the dying embers to life. The room lit with a pink flush. Gillet stirred in his bed and, rolling over, rubbed his eyes sleepily.

  ‘Cécile? Is that you?’ He looked to where Gwynedd stood, still wrapped in her cloak.

  ‘No, Gillet,’ she cooed softly, ‘it is I, Gwynedd.’

  ‘Gwynedd?’ With a warrior’s alertness he jerked into a sitting position. ‘Is something wrong? Is it Llewellyn? Is he ill?’

  Gwynedd smiled in the soft light. ‘No, my father, ’e sleeps. I came to give ye a gift long overdue.’

  The declaration caught Gillet mid-yawn, and he frowned as his mouth snapped shut. ‘ Mon Dieu. It is the middle of the night, girl, and you are in my bedchamber!’

  ‘The perfect time an’ place, Sire.’ She threw off her cloak and, tossing her long hair, spread her arms wide. She was naked except for black stockings tied with silver garters. Illuminated by the fire’s glow, her skin shimmered like pearl against the darkness of her nipples and the triangular tuft of black curls. She purred softly. ‘I know ye prefer yer women in naught but stockings. I ’eard you say so.’

  Cécile stifled her gasp. In her letters to Catherine, she had chided her sister more than once for listening at doorways, but the reality was that no amount of willpower could now make Cécile move. She had to know, had to see with her own eyes what Gillet would do. It would decide her fate.

  Gillet threw back the covers and donned his braies. Then he picked up Gwynedd’s cloak and draped it around her shoulders, covering her completely.
His voice was calm but firm.

  ‘I am honoured, Gwynedd, that you should consider me so favourably, but I must tell you that what you hoped for, when you entered this room, is not possible.’

  Gwynedd blinked in disbelief while, behind the door, Cécile’s lip trembled. Gillet held out his arm and indicated for Gwynedd to leave.

  ‘Ye do not understand, Gillet. I come to ye wholesome an’ pure. I can give ye ever’thing the Lady d’Armagnac cannot – purity, ye own son.’ She chuckled softly. ‘An’ ye desire me, too, I can see.’ She ran her hand down his chest to the top of his braies. Deprived of carnal activities, his body responded eagerly. Cécile bit her fist to keep from crying out but Gillet stepped away and, retrieving his robe, slipped it on.

  ‘There is no denying that you are a young and beautiful maiden, Gwynedd, and it would be so easy for me to take you as my mistress. But I will not.’ He placed his palm on her upturned face. ‘I have no wish to hurt you but hear me clearly. My heart belongs to Cécile, and, no matter how attractive the temptation, I will not betray it or her. She is the woman of my dreams and, though we may suffer our disagreements, she will always have my honour.’

  ‘But ye want me.’ Gwynedd threw herself against him, pressing her breasts tightly to his chest and kissed him soundly.

  Gillet jerked his head back and pushed her away. ‘No,’ he growled, as she wildly reached out to him.

  ‘Gillet, please!’

  ‘I think you should leave now.’ His voice rippled with anger as he turned his back. ‘Retain your dignity, Mademoiselle!’