The Order of the Lily

by Catherine A. Wilson

  The large hall sat between two wings, the timbered peaks of the later additions jutting high into the sky. The sombre grey, stone wall of the middle section was slowly disappearing under a blanket of thick, clinging ivy, and the whole structure sat regally in magnificent gardens.

  ‘That end of the building houses the solar and the main rooms for the Earl and his family,’ said Gillet as they pulled up at a distance. ‘The other end houses the kitchen, with the buttery and food storage area adjoining. The second floor is given over entirely to guest rooms, and you will see for yourself the magnificent staircase that leads to the gallery. Come. They await our arrival.’

  Servants rushed from the manor to attend them. The horses were led away under the watchful eyes of Alfred and Griffith as Gillet and Cécile were escorted inside. Inwardly trembling at the impending meeting, Cécile’s fear was premature. Lady Matilda was absent, attending a woman in the village. Assured that her return was imminent, the couple was shown to her solar to wait, but Griffith appeared to inform Gillet that Inferno was causing havoc in the stable. As a servant arrived with a jug of wine, Gillet took his leave.

  ‘Rest, sweetheart. I will attend to Inferno and await the arrival of Lady Matilda,’ he said, offering her a cup of wine. ‘I shall return soon with your aunt. Amuse yourself, but don’t get into mischief. You look beautiful,’ he added, swooping to kiss her briefly.

  At the last rest-stop, Cécile had changed into a more presentable outfit, a silver brocade gown and a soft-blue surcotte, edged with white embroidered scrolls – cloth Gillet himself had chosen. She suddenly wondered at the coincidence of wearing Holland colours.

  Taking a liberal gulp of wine, she cast her eyes over the array of tapestries and miniatures, small vases and trinket boxes decorating the chamber. The furnishings were tasteful and expensive, and with a violent jolt Cécile realised that she was standing in what should have been her childhood home, an estate that would now pass to her brother, a sibling she had never met. With a deep pang of despair, images of her adopted brother, Jean le Bossu, rose before her like a ghost from the grave. An overwhelming melancholy threatened to engulf her and she drank hastily to drown the despondent feeling. Her stomach rumbled and she realised she had been too nervous to eat at the last rest-stop.

  Looking for distraction before she became overset, she spied a small, gilt cage on the desk and, with a delighted gasp, dropped into the velvet-cushioned chair. The tiny azure bird eyed her speculatively and then with a dismissive chirrup, began amusing itself, swinging on the perch and dipping into somersaults, baring its beautiful yellow plumage underneath.

  Cécile tapped the door and immediately it fluttered down to investigate. She opened the gate with the intention of providing a finger perch and was enchanted when the bird hopped across the desk and flew up to the rim of her goblet. It ducked its beak into the dark contents, throwing its head back as the minuscule throat contracted. The little blue tit, for undoubtedly that’s what it was, dipped a few times more until, finally sated, it flittered to the desk. Cécile’s amusement faded as she watched it attempt a rather staggered path over the blank parchment.

  ‘Oh, gracious! I think you have had quite enough. You should return to your cage.’ Despite its shambling gait, the bird deftly evaded her and, Cécile, worried it would fly away, set about its capture in earnest.

  ‘Ha! I have you!’

  She neatly cocooned the feathered scoundrel between her palms and nudged open the gilt door, depositing her quarry back into its cage. The creature collapsed, feet in the air, not moving.

  ‘Sacré bleu.’ Cécile hastily backed away. ‘Mon Dieu, Cécile! How could you be so stupid?’ She retrieved her goblet and sipping her wine, paced fretfully, praying to Saint Francis for heavenly intervention. ‘Gracious! How fine will this appear?’ Her goblet tipped as she clutched her gown, practising a deep curtsey.

  ‘The honour is mine, Lady Matilda. What a lovely disposition has your room. The decorations are quite extraordinary, but I think I just killed your bird. Oh, no, no.’ Cécile sprang up. ‘That will never do!’ She drank nervously, fanning herself with outstretched fingers. ‘What to say, what to say.’ The wine jug beckoned and she refilled her cup, returning to the middle of the room. Down she went in a splendid curtsey.

  ‘Gracious Aunt, I am delighted to meet you. Oh! I forget, I forget! I must speak England’s tongue!’ Cécile thumped her forehead with frustration and inhaled deeply, switching to the Norman French. ‘My La-dy Matilda, how pleas-ed I am … to meet with you.’ The curtsey was perfection, the mangled Norman-French left a lot to be desired. She returned to her own sweet French. ‘May I say how delightful is your decor, but I think, there is ill tiding afoot with your pet.’ Finger poised at her cheek, Cécile considered. ‘No, no. That is no good, either. You don’t “think” there is something wrong, Cécile. You know there is.’ As she replenished her Bordeaux, inspiration struck. ‘Ah, voila. ’ She spread her skirt like flower petals blooming under full sun and sank to the floor with abject humility. ‘Lady Matilda, how wonderful to meet you, but a funny thing happened just now … well, no … it’s not really funny … Actually I doubt you will think it funny at all.’ She stood up and began treading the boards once more, sipping furiously. ‘Dear Aunt, were you terribly fond of your tiny bird? I have never before seen one that sleeps on its back.

  Oh fie.’

  Real panic set in and she trudged back to the jug and filled her cup before spinning to perform the most elegant curtsey she could manage.

  ‘Maybe if I dazzle her with my finesse no one will notice the silly creature lying in its cage. Oops!’ She giggled as she slipped to one side and landed indelicately on her bottom. ‘Well! That was charming, Lady d’Armagnac.’ She giggled again. ‘Perhaps I have indulged in enough curtseying. The floor keeps moving.’ Regaining her stance, she tippled her way to the table. ‘Merde! Gillet told you not to cause mischief. What is the Lady Matilda going to think of her niece killing the bird? Oooh … Gillet is certain to roar.’

  As she topped up her goblet, she imagined him towering over her, and it suddenly seemed hilarious. Her arms flew up to imitate an attacking bear.

  ‘Roar!’

  Then a new thought made her splutter outright.

  ‘Oh,’ she squealed, doubling over hysterically, ‘Ghil- bear! Oh, oh. Ghil- bear d’Albret! The culddiest … culddiest … cuddliest bear in all England.’ She flung out her arms once more and knocked the jug. Blood red wine sloshed over the white damask coverlet. 'Merde.’ Cécile caught the jug and tried to stop the stain from spreading but she was laughing too hard. ‘Oh, dear. Cécile d’Armagnac, this is hardly the behaviour of a lady, and you are a lady. Well,’ she snorted and rolled her eyes, ‘most of the time, anyway. Ooh, ooh.’ She held her aching stomach and wiped her eyes, then spied her salvation.

  ‘Aha!’ She wove across to the wooden bench and, retrieving a cushion, whipped off its white cover. Quickly now she removed the items from the soaked table and laying the cushion cover to hide the offending stain, returned the accoutrements.

  ‘Perfec … hic! …tion!’With all the stately splendour she could muster Cécile refilled her cup and sipped with grace, then noticed the naked cushion sitting amongst its colourful companions. ‘Well, that’s as obvious as a blacksmith in a ladies’ sewing circle! And it will certainly draw the attention of Lord Serious.’ A hiccough strangled her giggle as she trudged back to the seat. ‘Guinevere gets Sir Lancelot … hic! … and I get Sir Rants-a-lot. Not that I have any com … hic! … plaints about his lance,’ she guffawed. Suddenly she heard footsteps. ‘Oh gracious, Camelot is coming.’

  She looked for somewhere to hide the cushion. The door began to open. Gillet appeared with Lady Matilda close behind him. He froze in the doorway in complete shock.

  ‘Ghil-bear!’ The pent-up laughter begged release and Cécile howled her amusement, the cushion dislodging from beneath her gown to roll out at her feet.

  The untimely arrival of th
e cushion and Gillet’s horrified face was the decoction of sobriety that she needed. She was unhorsed as ceremoniously as a tumbled jouster and crashed back to earth with a thud. ‘I … I … I was amusing myself, just as you said, Gillet.’ Her lip quivered and her large blue eyes filled with tears. ‘But, I spilt the wine … and stained the cloth … and I cannot perfect my curtsey, and … and …’ A loud hiccough burst from her. The wail that followed it was ripe with alcoholic grief. ‘I squashed Lady Matilda’s tit!’

  Gillet recovered his wit and marched into the room, neatly capturing Cécile’s wrist in passing. ‘I was gone barely more than an hour,’ he hissed. ‘How much wine have you drunk?’ He deposited her onto the seat, and she watched, severely subdued, as he investigated the cage. He lifted the feathered body onto his palm and gently stretched out a wing. Slowly, it folded back into place. He repeated the process, suspiciously sniffing at it.

  ‘It is not dead, Lady Matilda,’ Gillet announced, turning. He offered an apologetic bow and darted Cécile a frown. ‘However, I fear your pet and your niece share the same state. They are both gloriously drunk.’

  ‘I am so sorry, Gillet,’ cried Cécile wretchedly. Another hiccough was her undoing, and she burst into tears. ‘I didn’t mean to make you serious!’

  ‘Make me?’ His voice rose with amazement. ‘What on Earth made you do this?’ He flung out his arm, neatly encompassing her misdemeanours within his sweep.

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ Cécile sniffed and wiped her nose along her sleeve. ‘The bird alighted on my goblet and helped itself to my cup, and I was beguiled but then it collapsed and I was horrified and I spilt my wine so I used the cushion cover to conceal it, but then the bare cushion looked ridiculous sitting on the couch and …’

  ‘And it was better hiding under your skirts?’

  ‘I … was trying …’ Another loud hiccough finished the sentence.

  Gillet’s expression wavered. He coaxed Cécile to her feet and pressed her against his shoulder. ‘Hush now. I, of all people, know how trying you are. Come, take a breath, put on a smile and greet your aunt – without the cushion this time.’

  Gillet held her out on his arm and bowed to the woman waiting by the door. ‘Lady Matilda, may I present, slightly worse for wear, your niece, Cécile d’Armagnac.’

  Cécile spread out her gown elegantly and sank into a deep curtsey worthy of a Valois court before she hiccoughed again.

  ‘Oh, my darling child!’ Lady Matilda clapped her hands together and chortled with delight. ‘I would not have missed this introduction for one to King Edward himself.’ She moved into the room and swooped Cécile into her embrace.

  Gillet leaned against the desk and folded his arms. ‘You will find this hydra-headed niece far more exasperating than her counterpart, Lady Matilda,’ he warned. He eyed the wine-stained cloth and shook his head. ‘I shall offer recompense now for all the losses you may suffer during our visit.’

  ‘Nonsense, my dear boy! When the Lady Blanche of Sussex was with child, she was so clumsy her husband had to engage a potter’s wheel to work daily for his table for six months! I am just delighted to have you here and besides, Cécile’s impulsive nature and her vitality is something to be cherished.’ She flicked her ringed hand at the damaged cloth and, unable to keep her face straight any longer, she burst into hearty laughter. ‘Although you might be well advised to have some looms weaving on your behalf now.’

  Gillet smiled. ‘Indeed. Then with your permission, I shall leave you to your niece in private. Bertram has promised me a tour of the stables.’

  ‘Yes, by all means, Gillet, go. Leave me to get acquainted with my niece.’

  The afternoon passed in tears and laughter and before Cécile knew it evening was upon them. She retired to her room after dinner and, feeling an overpowering desire to be alone, dismissed Minette. The fullness her heart had encountered during the afternoon hours suddenly plummeted. Cécile moved to the shuttered window and gazed out over the great blue lake that was shimmering in the last of the evening light. A flock of plovers flew over and dipped into the water. Melancholy fell upon her, and suddenly she envied their freedom, their carefree, light manner. How simple would life be if she and Gillet could just fly away?

  A clean chemise was laid out upon her travelling chest but thoughts of sleep abandoned her. She perched at the casement and stared out into the realm of Holland, idling over what life might have been like raised as a twin in such a serene setting. Would they have caused havoc with the servants? Her lips twitched into a half-smile. Perhaps they would have even pretended to be each other on occasions. Her thoughts wandered to Catherine. After long moments, she shook herself and moved to where a set of rosary beads hung from a hook. Her heart clenched. She had asked Aunt Matilda to let her stay in Catherine’s chamber but now she wondered at the wisdom of such a whim. She took the beads down and gathered them to her breast, her eyes welling. A small dish sat upon a shelf and, lifting the lid, Cécile found some coloured ribbons curled inside. She took out a blue one. Strands of gold clung to the silk and, pulling them free, she held them to her own hair, the colour a perfect match. Hot tears slid down her cheeks. How much had been denied them – an entire childhood. In that one moment, Cécile hated her parents, hated that they had never tried to find and re-unite her with her sister. For a life’s worth of living, the time she could remember spent with Catherine filled less than an hour. She fell upon the bed and sobbed into the goose-down coverlet.

  ‘I suspected your over-indulgence this afternoon might leave you feeling raw by evening.’ Strong hands lifted her from the bed and Cécile found herself cuddled on Gillet’s lap. ‘Crying for a lost childhood?’

  ‘Why did my mother never come for me, Gillet?

  ‘Lady Matilda said it was too dangerous. Salisbury was always watching.’

  ‘That is an excuse, not a reason. How could any woman abandon her children? I don’t think she wanted us.’

  Gillet stared over the top of her head at the far wall, his expression guarded. ‘From what I know of Joan, she does not like inconvenience. However, Matilda is convinced your father may think differently.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She thinks I should petition him outright for your hand.’

  Cécile pulled back. ‘Would that be a wise move? It will draw attention to us.’

  ‘It might. That would depend upon Thomas Holland.’ He kissed her brow. ‘We may have to take that chance but for now, put it from your mind, sweetheart. Try and sleep now and tomorrow I will take you to see Saint Mary’s church. It is where you were christened.’

  The outing to Saint Mary’s also fulfilled Gillet’s yearning to see inside the dovecote. The local priest was only too happy to comply. He led them down into the columbariurn, the inside cool and dark, rank with the musty odour of hay and droppings. The only light came from a small window through which the pigeons, numbering nearly one thousand, were able to fly in and out at will, to and from their nesting boxes.

  ‘They provide up to three and a half tons of pigeon meat each year,’ exclaimed the priest, plumping up as proudly as the cooing males above. ‘The females have an exceptionally short breeding cycle, a pair of eggs every six weeks and they continue at this rate for seven years. For the small cost incurred, it is a highly lucrative venture, Monsieur d’Albret.’ The men inspected the massive central post and the pivoting apparatus attached to the ladder, which allowed access to the different levels of nesting boxes.

  Cécile lost interest in the discussion of the intricate machinery and excused herself to escape into the fresh air in churchyard. Gillet met her outside a short time later, grinning.

  ‘You look mightily pleased with yourself.’ Cécile grabbed at her veil as Gillet hoisted her into the air and swung her around.

  ‘I shall build one! We can fill your chamber aumbry with pigeon pies for midnight snacks.’

  ‘In Chilham?’

  ‘No, in Bellegarde.’ He set her down and offered his arm with c
ourtly grace. Leisurely they strolled onto the downs and Gillet spoke of his hope for the future. Listening to him, Cécile’s heart grew wings and soared to the sky to fly alongside Saint Mary’s pigeons.

  On Sunday they attended the Mass in Broughton chapel, and Lady Matilda declared an afternoon of feasting and celebration. Cécile settled herself beneath the shade of a tree and watched as Gillet and Bertram were nominated to entertain the children. They donned their hoods backwards for ‘Hoodman’s Blind,’ and riotous squeals filled the air as Gillet and Bertram tried to catch their undersized quarry. When ‘Fallen Bridge’ had been exhausted, they took up ‘Jingling.’ Gillet placed the tiny bells around his wrists and ankles, as Bertram and Lady Matilda bound the children’s eyes with strips of cloth. The bells sounded Gillet’s every move as he tried to avoid capture. With the cunning of an adult, he threw a bracelet to Bertram, and together they confused the children as the tinkling came from more than one direction. When an assertive lad peeked from beneath his binding and discovered their antics, the men were besieged and forced to the ground. Gillet and Bertram were bested, and bellowed helplessly as an army of sticky hands tickled them.

  ‘Gillet will be a wonderful father,’ chirped Lady Matilda, passing a cup of perry to Cécile.

  ‘He spoke something of his hopes yesterday, much along those lines,’ replied Cécile, sipping the sweet pear juice. ‘But we have been known to argue rather heatedly on occasions.’

  ‘My dear child,’ replied Matilda, her eyes twinkling. ‘It is well known that the tastiest dish on the board is the one with a generous dash of spice!’

  As the children began ‘Hunt the Squirrel,’ Gillet, who had been excused from the game, dropped at Cécile’s feet and gratefully accepted a tankard of ale from Bertram. Still breathless from his exertions, he stretched out lazily, oblivious to the scorching glances from the serving maids.