The Order of the Lily

by Catherine A. Wilson

  ‘Moroccans do not wash their clothes in the same manner as we do and, as I did not want my garments thrashed over a rock, I had to take matters into my own hands.’

  Her arms ached with a fury and she could feel the sweat on her brow, for the fires beneath the great cauldrons were burning in earnest, as was her curiosity. ‘Why does Salisbury pursue me?’

  ‘He may hope to claim a reward for your capture. Edward would pay handsomely for your return.’

  ‘If I were Cécile,’ she replied. ‘But he quite clearly called me Catherine.’

  ‘Then your deception has been uncovered.’

  ‘But he is not dissuaded!’

  ‘It would seem not. Perhaps he has decided upon financial return from one of your many prospective husbands.’

  ‘Then why not inform Salisbury of our marriage? Would that not rectify the situation?’

  Simon dropped a wet shirt into the bucket and rounded the table to stand beside her. ‘Your argument is sound, but a little naive.’

  ‘How so?’ she asked.

  ‘It may be that he is motivated by something other than greed.’

  ‘Yet it is of his financial circumstance that he constantly whines …’

  ‘There are some things that you do not understand,’ Simon interrupted, tucking the wayward curl behind her ear.

  Their eyes locked. She was spellbound by his touch and unable to look away.

  ‘Catherine and her ugly washing maid,’ declared Armand, his untimely entrance breaking the moment. ‘Surely you could have found a servant to complete such an arduous chore.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she mumbled, colouring under his gaze.

  ‘Then it is a good thing that you convinced your devoted husband to assist you.’

  Simon coughed a mumbled reply. She could not make out what he said, but Armand openly laughed. ‘Oh, come, old man, you are too serious!’

  ‘What do you want?’ inquired Simon, his exasperation obvious.

  ‘I have been recalled to duty and must return to Calais. I had thought this might suit your plans, for we could travel together.’

  ‘Please excuse me,’ Catherine said politely. ‘I imagine you have much to discuss.’

  Simon bowed his head respectfully as she departed.

  She stopped in the hallway and took several deep breaths. Simon had not seemed the least surprised by her revelation that Salisbury knew who she was. Nor was she satisfied by her husband’s explanation. But then she had not revealed everything, had she? She had not told Simon that Salisbury had asked about the mysterious Lady of Scotland.

  Catherine flattened herself against the wall and sidled back to the open doorway, sure that both men were unaware of her presence. Armand spent several minutes discussing his soldiers before talk turned her way. ‘Have you questioned her?’ he asked Simon.

  ‘I have not, nor do I intend to, not yet anyway.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I doubt she knows anything,’ replied Simon.

  ‘What about the manuscript? Perhaps if you showed it to her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you think Salisbury will continue his pursuit?’

  ‘Of that I am sure. Catherine tells me that the bastard called her by name.’

  ‘Interesting,’ replied Armand. ‘I wonder if he has informed his master.’

  ‘Knowing Salisbury, I doubt it. He views each piece of information as a valuable commodity. The Prince will have to pay highly for that little gem.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘Carry on as planned,’ Simon explained. ‘You make your delivery whilst I complete my commission. With any luck we shall depart sooner than originally envisaged.’

  ‘What do you intend to do about Salisbury?’ Armand questioned.

  ‘Desperate men make mistakes.’

  ‘And the Prince?

  ‘Leave Edward to me. We shall beard the lion in his own den.’

  Having the opportunity to explore the grounds, Catherine discovered the true heart of France, the garden of the world. The manor had been built close to a lake, its reflection sparkling like a mosaic window in the midday sun. It appeared all the more picturesque by the timber bridge that spanned the centre. Leaning on the handrail, admiring God’s work, Catherine was surprised when Armand appeared suddenly.

  ‘Your presence evokes vivid memories of my childhood and adolescence,’ began Armand. ‘But I must remind myself that you are not Cécile and we share little commonality.’ His smile was wistful. ‘There are moments when I forget.’

  ‘You miss her?’

  ‘Yes, very much.’ Armand linked his arm through Catherine’s and led her back towards the house. ‘I have never denied my love for Cécile. It is more that I realise how much I took it for granted.’

  ‘I believe that may be the case for many of us, for such knowledge is often gained in hindsight.’

  Armand smiled. ‘I know you have been told just how alike you are. But it is more than just your appearance, your smile. The dimple in your cheek, the way you narrow your eyes when you are angry.’

  Catherine scowled playfully, for she was rarely cross.

  ‘The way you look at me now, I see Cécile and my heart is warmed. You do not often smile,’ he said. ‘Are you so very sad?’

  ‘I am not sad at all.’

  ‘Really? I just can’t imagine that Lord Pompous is much fun!’

  ‘That is unfair, Armand. Simon is … Simon is …’

  ‘Is what?’

  ‘Jovial. At times he is jovial.’

  Armand scoffed and then laughed as Catherine pulled a face.

  ‘You should not tease him so.’

  ‘Why not? I assure you, he gives as good as he gets.’

  ‘True,’ Catherine giggled, ‘but he does not enjoy it as much as you.’

  Captivated by their mirth, neither saw Simon’s approach. ‘Where have you been? I have been calling you.’

  ‘I … I … took a turn of the garden … and I …’ Catherine attempted to explain.

  ‘We were simply enjoying each other’s company …’

  Simon did not wait for Armand to finish. Instead he curled his fist and knocked him to the ground. ‘Leave her be!’

  ‘Simon!’ shrieked Catherine, appalled by her husband’s behaviour.

  Armand rose, wiping his mouth. ‘It was nothing, you stupid jackass!’

  ‘I am much aware of your preferences,’ fumed Simon. ‘You forget yourself, Armand d’Albret! Catherine is not available for your dalliance.’

  Embarrassed by Simon’s outburst, Catherine lifted her skirt and fled, Armand’s and her husband’s harsh words following her into the orchard.

  Simon found her sitting on an upturned bucket, talking to several foraging wood pigeons.

  ‘May I?’ he asked, indicating a nearby straw bale.

  She nodded and hastily looked away.

  ‘I apologise for Armand. I simply misunderstood,’ he began, but Catherine continued to stare in the opposite direction.

  ‘May I ask you something, M’lord?’

  ‘You may,’ he replied, touched by the grief he saw upon her face.

  ‘Do you think you will ever want me as your wife?’

  ‘I cannot answer that.’

  ‘Why?’ she replied.

  ‘Because I fear that I cannot be honest.’

  ‘I do not understand. Why can you not be honest with me? I do not lie to you,’ she declared stubbornly.

  Simon cocked one brow, remembering the white lie she had told him in Paris.

  ‘You are timid and easily distraught,’ he began, rising to his feet, ‘and I care sufficiently that I do not wish to cause you pain.’

  ‘I do not believe you. I think you do want me as your true wife but are more fearful of causing pain to yourself than to me!’

  ‘You speak from inexperience,’ he blustered, then marched away.

  ‘That might be the case, but I know my own heart,’ she spoke aloud to his retrea
ting back.

  Salisbury stabled his horse and slipped into the building by the rear entrance. He tossed the innkeeper a small bag of coins. His day had not gone as planned. He was tired and hungry and wanted nothing more than a jug of ale and the comfort of his bed.

  He was not expecting the visitor who awaited his return. ‘Your Grace.’ Salisbury dropped to his knees and studied the soiled boots before him.

  ‘A mutual friend informs me that you have been attempting to locate a certain missing demoiselle?’

  ‘Yes, M’lord.’

  ‘Is the news good?’ The edge to Prince Edward’s voice was ominous.

  Salisbury dared not look up. ‘It is not as we had thought, Sire.’ Edward’s silence was unnerving and finally Salisbury mumbled, ‘It was Catherine, M’lord, not Cécile.’

  ‘I have been told as much,’ the Prince replied, ‘but I wished to hear it from your lips. How long have you known?’

  ‘I did not, M’lord, not until I had her within my grasp,’ he lied, clenching his fist in mimicry. ‘Then I knew.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Her companions called her by name.’

  ‘So, Wexford is a traitor.’

  ‘Yes, M’lord.’

  Edward kicked the table, toppling the jug of ale and scattering the tankards. ‘When did the girls change places?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Then find out!’ he bellowed and stormed from the room.

  ‘Bitch!’ spat Salisbury, retrieving the jug and hurling it at the wall. Joan had betrayed him to her lover and God only knew the benefits she was now enjoying. Once again he would be seen as the snivelling second. But that was going to change. Once he had his hands on the Lady of Scotland things would be different. Perhaps Wexford’s head on a platter would better his position.

  Cécile stretched out before the fire in the solar. Cinnamon sprawled languorously over her lap, her loud purrs echoing sentiment enough for both of them. Gillet sat in the other chair, studiously absorbed in making flights for his arrows. He had a bundle of shafts at his feet and a small wicker basket of assorted feathers on his knee. Perched on the chair arm beside him, Nutmeg saw fit to assist and every now and again a paw intervened, clawing at the wiggling plumes.

  A sudden, resounding sneeze from Gillet launched the container on his lap into flight, and the two cats leaped to the floor to chase, catch and promptly munch his precious pinion.

  Gillet huffed with annoyance and in a ‘please control your cats’ tone he drawled, ‘Sayseeele.’

  Cécile chuckled and scooped up Cinnamon, but Nutmeg, with an air of male arrogance and a grey fledge poking from his mouth, swished his tail and returned to his perch. The impudent creature glared at Gillet.

  ‘Your cats need to learn manners.’

  Nutmeg’s chest rolled with a feline growl as Gillet tugged the feather from its mouth and threw it into the fire. He kneeled to clean up the mess.

  ‘I think I am feeding them too much,’ replied Cécile, poking Cinnamon. ‘Do you think she is becoming fat?’

  Gillet looked up from the floor. ‘Here, let me see.’ He flipped her over and in protest Cinnamon sunk her claws into his flesh. ‘Ow! Ungrateful beast! No, sweetheart, you may even be underfeeding her.’ He dropped the cat back into Cécile’s lap and returned to his seat, under the vicious stare of Nutmeg. Gillet pushed the cat from its roost. ‘I think Cinnamon and Nutmeg have decided to add a spice rack to your pantry.’

  ‘Kittens?’ squealed Cécile in delight. ‘Oh Gillet, when?’

  Returning his attention to his arrows, Gillet ran his fingers smoothly down a shaft. ‘I am no expert but I would say in a few weeks, probably around Noël.’ He caught Cécile’s expression and smiled tenderly. ‘You are making all the females in this household broody.’

  She chortled. ‘Except Ruby.’

  His raised eyebrows smugly suggested otherwise. ‘Oh, Inferno has finally won her attention, but I have kept them separated.’ He flung a baleful glare sideways at the feline male. ‘You are more devious.’ Nutmeg spun, his tail spiking to the ceiling to offer an insulting back view as he calmly padded away like a majestic lion.

  Gillet looked at Cécile wistfully. ‘You are glowing, Lady Sprite. And you seem much improved of late.’

  ‘In truth I have never felt better,’ replied Cécile, stretching.

  Since Gwynedd’s dismissal, the relationship between the couple had improved enormously, and with it, so had Cécile’s health.

  ‘My strength has returned. So much that I find myself restless and crave more than laying around all day.’

  Gillet abandoned his work and went to kneel beside her chair. ‘Then I have a proposition for you.’ He withdrew a parchment from his doublet. Pressing the broken seal together to make it whole, he offered it for her perusal. The indentation in the wax was a rampant lion, its head turned to look back over its right shoulder, on a background of fleurs-de-lys. ‘Do you know that mark?’ he asked softly.

  Cécile stared at the lion surrounded by lilies, a combination of the emblems of England and France and shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘It is yours, sweetheart, the seal of Holland.’

  Her eyes lifted to meet Gillet’s. ‘And the letter?’

  ‘From Lady Matilda. It is an invitation to visit Broughton.’

  ‘Broughton?’ Cécile’s heart skipped a beat.

  ‘I have a matter to discuss with Lady Matilda and she has asked if her niece would be accompanying me.’

  ‘Oh, Gillet! Is this possible?’

  He cocked his head. ‘It could be, if you were to obey my instructions. Broughton is a few days’ ride, but I can have a small covered conveyance at your disposal. You would be able to take your rest, even sleep, along the way. If you feel up to the task, I could take you to meet your aunt before both your condition and winter weather make travel impossible. What do you think?’

  Gillet fell back laughing as Cécile launched herself upon him and covered his face with kisses.

  The flag bearer rode to the front position, sitting high in his saddle as the soldiers fell in behind. The horses, armoured in shaffrons and peytrals, were draped in red caparisons as the men-at-arms clanked alongside in matching jupons. In a time when most heraldic designs incorporated intricate devices upon colourful fields, the Albrets had become well-known for their single colour devoid of all pattern. They had been ominously dubbed ‘the army of blood red.’

  Cécile emerged from the manor and halted mid-stride when she saw the ensemble.

  ‘We ride under your family’s banner?’ she asked with surprise as Gillet led Ruby to her.

  ‘It is a formal visit,’ he replied with a wry smile. ‘Supposedly we have been summoned by the Earl of Kent but the finger pushing the quill was really that of your aunt.’

  ‘And under these colours we are safe?’

  ‘Yes. Salisbury’s eyes are trained upon France for one Cécile d’Armagnac. No one will think to look for her here, cosseted by Edward’s allies. And even if Salisbury were to recognise you, he would think twice before attacking. We ride on official business, under the protection of my brother, Amanieu, Seigneur de Vertheuil, and your father, the Earl of Kent, himself.’ He nodded towards a second flag bearer, dressed in blue, who had just placed himself alongside the Albret squire. His Holland banner took up a measure next to the red one. Gillet smiled with warmth. ‘Lady Matilda wishes her niece to arrive in one piece.’

  They journeyed the first day to Maidstone, arriving mid-afternoon. Cécile was riveted by the sight of a huge fortification standing in the middle of a lake. The rounded keep was built onto the smaller of two islands, and housed the royal apartments. It was connected by a drawbridge to the domestic buildings located on the larger island. Judging by the colour of the stonework, new outer gates had just been completed, accompanied by two portcullises, while the gatehouse boasted a machicolation – a projecting upper gallery on brackets with floor openings through which boiling oil could be poured o
r rocks hurled at attackers.

  ‘Breathtaking, yes?’ said Gillet, pulling up alongside. ‘Esledes is one of the finest castles in England, and your great grandfather improved it from what was an early wooden Saxon manor into his own stone palace.’ A gentle mist swirled over the lake and Cécile gasped with round-eyed wonder.

  ‘I almost expect a lady’s arm to emerge from the water, bearing Excalibur!’

  ‘Come, ma princesse petite,’ replied Gillet, amused, ‘let us find an inn. Unfortunately, I am no Arthur so we must secure other accommodation.’

  Much of the trip was to take the routine of that first day. They rode the mornings, arriving at their appointed destination by mid-afternoon, whereupon they dined and retired early in order to rise before dawn. By the fifth day, they turned from the main thoroughfare at Stockbridge onto the by-road to reach Broughton. Cécile was immediately struck by the beauty of the valley, the gently rising farmland to the north and the tiny village, its timbered and thatched cottages nestled in the protective comfort of the high downs like mushrooms sprouting on a bank. To the south and west, rich, chalk grasslands filled the landscape.

  ‘In spring, this is bedecked with flowers, cowslips and rock rose, as far as the eye can see,’ announced Gillet. They wound down into the village, and Gillet pointed out the quaint church. ‘St Mary’s.’

  The stonework gleamed in the soft sunlight and a strange looking structure like a turret lopped from the top of a castle stood in the churchyard.

  ‘The columbariurn,’ said Gillet, as they rode past. ‘A dovecote. And one of the more lucrative ones I have ever seen. It houses nearly a thousand pigeons so I suspect pigeon pie will be on the menu.’

  They headed south on the old Roman road and Gillet pointed over his shoulder.

  ‘Salisbury lives just over that rise.’

  Cécile shuddered but said nothing as they turned west. From here they rode onto the downs, field upon field of lush green velvet, and, in the distance, spreading out like a pretty gown in a well-formed curtsey, stood the manor of Broughton.