The Order of the Lily

by Catherine A. Wilson

  Tears prickled dangerously behind Cécile’s eyes. ‘We’ve had rather a sore start.’

  Gillet unsheathed his bejewelled dagger, Cécile’s gift to him at Compiegne. He sliced one of the apples. ‘When I met you at the palace, I had serious doubts,’ he said, offering a plump section from the tip of his blade. The ebony depths of his eyes sparkled, ‘but no more.’ Handing her another chunk, he slid down to munch the remaining half pensively. ‘I have lived as a fool.’

  Cécile combed her fingers through the soft black waves that fell to his shoulders. ‘It is funny. A year ago I knew you not, and now I cannot imagine my life without you.’

  Gillet tossed his depleted apple core onto the carpet of bur-nished leaves and wiped his hand across his thigh. ‘There is Edward’s child to consider.’ He flipped onto his stomach and his long fingers adroitly stroked her laden womb. ‘If I want you in my life, Cécile, then I must accept this, but I shall not have him come between us. No one must come between us ever again.’ He lifted her gown and rested his hands on either side of the bulge, addressing it sternly, as though he knew tiny ears were listening. ‘And you need not think, Jean Petit, that you shall exert your princely wiles upon me. If I am to act as your father, then you will obey me in all things.’ Suddenly he ducked, and tickled Cécile with his new beard. Squealing, she tried to wriggle from his grasp, but his lips fastened at the top of her thigh. Cécile’s breathing quickened as he slid down, his purpose abundantly clear.

  She squashed her lips tight and held her breath, tensing as Gillet neared his target but the anticipation of soft whiskers against such intimate parts proved too much. She burst out laughing and pushed him from his goal. He tried again, but Cécile shrilled helplessly and Gillet gave up his task, slump-ing beside her.

  ‘I am sorry, Gillet,’ she choked with merriment. ‘But you made me ticklish and it would not cease.’ His sullen look was so forlorn Cécile succumbed to another fit of giggles. ‘Sire, punish me not for your folly.’

  ‘Come, Lady d’Armagnac,’ Gillet held out his hand, his voice devoid of humour. ‘Since my inept attempts are causing such frivolity, mayhap we should take a walk to quell your jocularity.’

  ‘No, Gillet. Do not be so offended! Come, sit back down. Since I cannot be your slave, let me be the master.’ He relented and slouched against the tree. She unfastened the wooden toggles on his doublet and, tugging his shirt free, bent to kiss the smooth skin. His body responded eagerly. Cécile let her tongue glide languorously over his stomach and followed the trail of velvet-down to the edge of his braies. Designs more intricate than the plans of Notre Dame skidded across his midriff and Gillet groaned with growing impatience as Cécile teased. Leisurely she drifted below the line of his braies, when suddenly she snarled and gnashed her teeth like a hungry wolf. Gillet scrambled sideways with the speed of lightening, his hands flying to protect his vulnerable parts. Cécile fell back, laughing riotously.

  ‘You should have seen your face!’

  ‘Point taken, Lady.’ Two strong hands pinioned her waist. ‘Let’s keep the biting end towards the sky, yes?’ Gillet’s arousal had not been completely doused and he hoisted Cécile astride him.

  Cécile was jolted by the heated rush that surged between them. It was an ancient alchemistic response. Gillet’s eyes darkened to black, as though the candle lighting them had just been extinguished. With resolute calculation an adjust-ment of linen had him sheathed and home. His hands slid to her hips to dictate the pace, and Cécile bent forward, her lips bruising his, as a slow growl of pleasure unfurled in his chest.

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ groaned Gillet, sagging against the tree, breathless from his victory. A whistle of wings sounded from above as a flock of wood pigeons flew overhead. In the distance came the melodic notes of a thrush and Gillet smiled. ‘Music from a songbird. That is supposed to be a good omen.’

  ‘I did not think you believed in omens.’

  He lifted Cécile to one side and readjusted his clothing. ‘Not when they are based on feather-headed females looking for somewhere to nest,’ he goaded, grinning conceitedly.

  Cécile struck out playfully and they tumbled in an array of arms and legs, switching positions with much hilarity, until Gillet was perched above her, a great eagle mercilessly toying with his quarry. His muscled thighs and strong hands held her down and she was pinioned like a hide staked out to dry.

  ‘Lady, I think that …’ Suddenly he tensed, the laughter leaving his face as his eyes became fixed to a point on the ground to his right. He drew in his breath slowly. ‘As you value your life, Cécile,’ he whispered soberly, ‘I beg you, do not move a muscle.’

  Cécile instinctively flinched and Gillet’s grip tightened, holding her fast.

  ‘Do not move. When I give you clearance, slide your hand towards my leg and slowly unsheathe my dagger … slow-ly.’

  Without lifting his eyes, he released the pressure on her forearm. At a snail’s pace Cécile slid her wrist along his thigh towards his belt. Her fingers curled around the hilt of his dagger.

  ‘Now slide it … down my arm, to my hand … slowly … very … very … slowly. Make … no … sudden … movements.’

  Cécile swallowed, the blood pounding in her ears, until finally the handle passed from her hand to his. The apple in Gillet’s throat convulsed as he took a firm ‘stabbing’ hold of the weapon.

  ‘When I give you the command, roll to your right as fast as you can.’ He released the pressure he had thus kept upon her right forearm. ‘ Now. ’

  With a yelp, she whirled away as Gillet leaped from her and struck with his blade. He followed quickly behind her, both of them rolling along the ground like storm-blown acorns. Cécile scrambled to her feet to see a thrashing length of creamy brown and black scales, pegged by its head.

  Gillet sprinted to the horse and drew the sword strapped to his saddle. He severed the snake’s writhing body and hurtled it into the bushes. Pinning the head with his foot, he pulled out his knife and flicked the remains into the undergrowth, stooping to wipe his dagger on the grass.

  ‘Remind me to wash this when we get home. It will have poison on it.’

  Cécile fell against the nearest tree, dry-retching. Gillet waited patiently for a few minutes, then hooked his arm around her waist and gently lifted her to her feet. He brushed away the tendrils of hair from her wet cheeks.

  ‘An adder. You were very brave, Lady Sprite.’ He smiled and waggled his eyebrows in jest. ‘Life with you, ma chérie, is never boring.’

  Cécile crumpled into Gillet’s arms and burst into desolate tears.

  He held her head against his shoulder. ‘Hush, my love. It was just a snake. It cannot hurt you now. We probably disturbed its winter nest with our foolery.’

  Cécile pushed herself from Gillet’s arms, shrieking. ‘Just a snake? Just a snake? No! Do you not see? It was the Devil himself! This is the Garden of Eden and I am Eve, and we ate the apple. Are we always to be punished for our love?’

  ‘Cécile.’

  ‘Every time we turn around, we must be watching over our shoulders. Women trying to seduce you … Edward after me … soldiers bursting into our room … fleeing in the middle of the night … fires in barns … and now … snakes! And this … this!’ She thrust her stomach forward, screaming. ‘I hate this. I hate not knowing if I am going to be laughing one minute, crying the next, all the time not knowing what my future holds because of this. I cannot see my papa. I cannot go home. I have no home. Edward has ruined my life.’

  Gillet stared, open mouthed, as she held out her hands beseeching him, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Take me away, Gillet. Put me on that horse now and let us ride from here to … to … Spain … Portugal, anywhere, I don’t care! We can go where no one knows who we are, where no one cares who we are. I see the looks you try to hide. I know what thoughts lay behind those eyes. You try to hide them, but you cannot! You loathe the fact I carry Edward’s child. Will it never end?’ Her shoulders slumped
and she put her head in her hands, her voice a whisper. ‘If my life must be torn from me, then would it was your child for whom I suffered.’ The storm gave way and she fell to her knees, weeping pitifully.

  Gillet’s lips seared hers in a blinding kiss. Without a word, he scooped her up and mounted the Boulonnais, keeping her possessively in his arms. Cécile gave herself up to him, exhausted. She leaned against his chest, drinking in his scent and closed her eyes.

  Gillet’s deep voice resounded above her, rich and mellow.

  ‘Love reigns serenely in my lady’s eyes,

  Ennobling everything she looks upon,

  Towards her, when she passes, all men turn,

  And he whom she salutes feels his heart fail,

  So that, with drooping countenance, and pale,

  He then because of his shortcomings sighs:

  Before her, pride retreats and anger flies:

  Assist me, Ladies, now to honour her.

  All sweetness, all humility of thought

  Stir in the heart of him who hears her speak,

  And he who sees her first is blest indeed.

  And when she smiles her beauty is such as

  Cannot be told, nor in the memory held,

  So fair, so new a miracle it is.’

  Cécile snuggled deeper on the verge of falling into a doze. At length she noticed the elongated shadows and prised herself from the security of Gillet’s warmth. She glanced up at his grim expression. ‘Gillet?’

  ‘Yes, sweetheart.’ His expression was a blank mask, his eyes stalwartly fixed on the road, his mouth set in a line of determination. He appeared possessed in a single-minded purpose.

  Cécile glanced around. ‘Is that not Chilham behind us?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gillet, where are we going?’

  ‘To Spain … unless my Lady orders otherwise.’

  Excerpt of letter to Lady Catherine Wexford from her sister.

  We did not take the road to Spain that day. But we did find the path back to each other. In that moment, as he stared into my eyes, I knew I had only to say the word and he would have risked all to take me from this place. But one cannot run away from life, Catherine. Nor do I find you can turn your back on love. When it is truly in your heart, it is there to stay. I would make my life with this man, and no other.

  Cécile d’Armagnac.

  Salisbury managed to secure lodgings close to the centre of the city and, on numerous occasions, identified several of the French soldiers accompanying his nemesis. Yet he stayed his hand and instead indulged his senses with fine wine, cheap women and willing boys, all the while considering his options.

  The most effective method would be to simply slit Catherine’s throat and cast her body at the feet of his royal patron but, though that would please Joan, it would not provide him with the best outcome. Edward was more likely to hand over larger quantities of gold for a living whore than a dead nun. And there was always the possibility that the Black Prince would discover their ruse. But in the ensuing days of boredom, he identified a third possibility. If he succeeded he would receive the recognition he craved and the respect he deserved. Edward and Joan would not dare interfere, not once he had the King’s gratitude bestowed upon him. He no longer required the manuscript. He could recall every detail by heart, but Catherine was a different matter. She may know more than she had let on, and locating the Lady of Scotland for the King would be worth far more than she and her sister together.

  Salisbury crouched behind the bushes outside the city gates and watched as the covered cart approached. Satisfied his men were in position, he drew his sword. Now he need only bide his time.

  Catherine sat atop a palfrey, procured by her husband for the ride to Calais. Simon had informed her of their imminent departure only the night before. She attempted to discover their ultimate destination, but he would not tell. She sincerely hoped that it was England.

  It was midmorning by the time they crossed the Grand Pont. The streets were busy as shoppers jostled between the many stalls, piled high with seasonal fruits, smoked meats and live fowl in baskets. Catherine took a deep breath. How she longed for the wide, open spaces between the sleepy villages, where the air was sweeter, the sky clearer and the sun brighter. City life did not suit her. Lost in her own thoughts, she was oblivious to the accident on the road ahead until they were all but upon it. A cart had tipped and lost its load across the centre of the path and the poor beast pulling it had broken a leg and had been mercifully put out of its misery. She gave the creature a silent blessing as they made their way through the throng of onlookers.

  Suddenly Armand grabbed her reins and pulled her mount towards his, yelling at her to make haste and ride away. English soldiers were pushing their way through the crowd towards them. A gap appeared to her right and kicking the mare’s flank she attempted to push her way through, but just as quickly it was gone as a determined soldier on horseback blocked her path. Catherine had difficulty controlling her skittish mount as an English foot-soldier grabbed her skirts. She lashed out, her boot splitting his lip. The soldier bellowed an obscenity and swung his sword. Catherine pulled hard on her reins and screamed as the man fell to the ground, Armand’s blade in his back.

  Locating Simon in the mêlée she turned her horse in his direction but from the midst of the chaos, like some evil spectre from Hell, Salisbury appeared, blocking her route. Simon yelled out and, raising his sword, charged at Salisbury. Their blades clashed repeatedly as they struck out at each other. A slicing blow sent a soldier at Salisbury’s side spiralling to the ground, his body rolling beneath Simon’s mount. Salisbury’s horse reared, toppling him from the saddle but he leapt quickly to his feet and grabbed at Catherine’s ankle, dragging her to the ground, his dagger at her throat.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Who?’ croaked Catherine, swallowing hard.

  He forced the weapon up under her jaw. ‘You know very well who! Where is she?’

  ‘I will never betray my sister.’

  ‘I don’t care about your precious sibling,’ he spat. ‘I want the Lady of Scotland.’

  ‘Who?’ she protested.

  Salisbury pressed the blade tighter and a bead of blood glistened. ‘Do not underestimate me!’

  ‘Let her go.’ Simon dismounted and thrust his sword in Salisbury’s direction.

  Holding Catherine as a shield, Salisbury spun around, to reveal his knife. ‘Do not move a muscle, Wexford.’

  The two men glared at one another.

  ‘We have company,’ Armand shouted as a regiment of the Dauphin’s soldiers rode into view.

  ‘What’s it to be, Salisbury? Freedom or a foreign cell?’ offered Simon. ‘Some say the truce was signed in blood and the French are still stinging.’

  ‘I will not go willingly,’ Catherine threatened as she struggled against him.

  Salisbury’s looked to the alleyway and back to Simon before pushing Catherine to the ground and making his escape.

  Simon held Gabriel and Roderick back. ‘Let him go.’ He nodded at the approaching soldiers. ‘We’d do better to follow Salisbury’s example.’ He helped Catherine to her feet as the men gathered the horses. Several alleys later they took refuge behind a large stack of barrels, the surprised cooper happy to pocket the gold coins for his silence.

  It was several hours before they regrouped on the outskirts of the city. The men were still excitedly swapping accounts of the fight but Catherine, weary and depressed over her encounter with Salisbury, allowed her mare to fall back. Gabriel was leading them to his family home which was not far. Simon rode close by, observing the boyish enthusiasm in silence and Catherine smiled, warmed by his maturity and protectiveness.

  The interior of the fortified keep exuded style and sophistication, from tapestries, fur rugs, the cushions and covers, to the furniture, collected over many generations. Catherine lan-guished in bed, listening to the sound of birds and enjoying the scent of lavender from the kitchen garden. She c
onsidered herself very fortunate. Other than a ruined surcote and a bruised derrière she was relatively unhurt. It could have been so much worse.

  She struggled to her feet and examined her travelling outfit. It was certainly salvageable, but she would need to wash and mend it.

  The washhouse was hot and stuffy, filled with steam rising from the tubs of boiling water. Catherine tossed her surcote, cloak and chemise into the vat, swirling the contents with the large wooden paddle. There were a few tasks at which she had been successful whilst at Denny Abbey. Assisting in the laundry house was one of them.

  Simon appeared at the door, a small bundle of soiled attire tucked beneath his arm. ‘I have been informed that a newly acquired maid has offered to complete the laundry!’

  ‘I take it that you think it improper for me to wash my own clothes?’ A lock of hair had escaped her hastily constructed braid and she was forced to blow it away each time it dropped into her eyes.

  ‘Not at all, but I had thought you to be at rest.’

  ‘I cannot take to my bed all day. I am not used to such liberties. Besides, I draw contentment from completing such tasks.’

  ‘Well, if that be the case, I will happily contribute to your joy.’ She watched as he added his garments to the pile on the table, unrolling numerous dirty shirts, chausses and braies. ‘I’ll wring.’

  He pushed up his sleeves and began squeezing the water from one of her older chemises.

  ‘I did not know you possessed the skill,’ she teased, fighting with the heavy load.

  ‘One must learn to help oneself when there is no one else to do it for you.’

  Catherine was puzzled, for he was a man of wealth and surely never need undertake such things.