‘You will?’
‘With one proviso, that you tell your sister that I … I … miss her,’ he stammered. He stepped to the casement. ‘I dared to hope for Cécile’s return, and I would have conceded much to see our child legitimised.’ He circled brusquely and with the arrogance of royalty. ‘What woman could refuse such an offer? I’d yet see it done. You may tell her that my proposal stands and I shall beget another heir upon her.’
The door was wrenched open by Simon. Each man regarded the other until Lord Wexford bowed, his irreverence obvious.
‘Wait in the hallway,’ the Prince commanded. Simon did as ordered but left the door ajar.
‘Now that your deception is over I want your honesty. Where is Wexford taking you?
‘To my sister.’
‘Then I ask that you deliver my message to Cécile. Tell her I will expect her at my new court in Bordeaux.’ He held out his hand and assisted her to stand. ‘I will hold back my hounds and allow you to travel freely, but I would have her come to me.’
‘Yes, Sire, I will tell her,’ Catherine promised. He raised his closed fist to her lips and she kissed the ring upon his finger. ‘Thank you.’
He retracted his hand and stood away, his smile strangely beguiling.
Catherine heard the heated exchange as the Prince confronted Simon in the corridor. She was shaking uncontrollably, the enormity of the past hour striking her like a slap to the face. Was this the finality to her dreams? Would she never see her family together?
The heavy footfall upon the stairs assured her of the Prince’s departure and she inhaled deeply, for, until then, she had hardly breathed at all.
‘Are you harmed?’ asked Simon, placing his medical box on the floor and gathering her into his arms.
‘No,’ she replied, her voice hoarse.
‘What did he say?’
‘He accused us of uncovering Thomas’ plans and then poisoning him!’
‘What plans?’
‘I do not know. Perhaps …’
‘Wait,’ cautioned Simon. ‘It would be best to discuss this after we return to our chamber.’
‘What of my father?’
‘The Prince is organising the removal of his body, and we have been granted leave. We must away quickly, for I do not trust the Black Prince any more than does Gillet, and I would have us gone before he changes his mind.’
They silently retreated down the stairs and exited through the rear of the building, stepping out into soft mud. Simon led her along the alleyway and through the dark until they finally came upon the kitchen door of their inn.
Catherine could not control the rapid beat of her heart, nor the shivering, no matter the number of blankets Simon wrapped around her.
‘We must assume Thomas Holland made agreements for your future whilst he was in London for I cannot think of any other reason why the prince would accuse us of harming your father,’ Simon summised.
‘I don’t understand?’
‘Lady Wexford, you and I have not received the King’s permission to marry. Some would say that in itself is an act of treason. Of course, had we received your father’s blessing it would not be so much of an issue. But, had Sir Thomas wanted to create mischief he may have petitioned the King. You may yet find yourself a young widow with your second husband having already received permission to wed.’
‘Oh Simon, no,’ she gasped, reaching for his hand.
‘Did the Prince say anything else?’
‘As we assumed, his devotion to my sister remains unabated, but ’tis worthy to note that he is convinced that the babe is lost. I told him Céci miscarried on the boat to England’
‘That was quick thinking. Did he believe you?’
‘I think so. He was visibly shaken.’
‘Then we must be thankful that at least one good thing has come from this night,’ Simon replied.
‘Well, what have you to say for yourself?’ Edward’s fury was evident as he paced before the hearth.
‘Nothing, M’lord. I had nothing to do with his death. I imagine that Wexford …’
‘Was not responsible and nor was his wife,’ concluded the Black Prince. ‘I had business to discuss with the man and instead I find him lying in a pool of green spittle, your horse stabled not ten furlongs from where he fell.’
Salisbury remained tight lipped as he watched Edward’s every move.
‘How much do you want?’
‘M’lord?’
‘You heard me. How much coin will it take to make you give up your foolish claims on the Holland girls?’
‘With all due respect, Your Majesty, my claims are not foolish.’
A young squire stepped forward and placed several large bags of coin on the table. He was soon followed by another and then a third. Salisbury’s eyes sparkled.
‘I know you have served many masters, but from now on, you serve only me. Agreed?’
‘Yes, M’lord.’
‘The matter between yourself and the Holland family is now settled.’
Salisbury nodded.
‘Now, take your sorry hide back to England and find that which my father demanded of you some time ago. His patience grows thin.’
Salisbury gathered the bags in arms and quickly shuffled his way from the great hall, his cheeks glowing with humili-ation. But it did not matter. He had what he wanted and it was more than enough to clear his debt. He returned to his accommodation and barred the door, then lifted the lid to his coffer. He hurriedly secreted all but one bag of coins, before pouring himself a healthy measure of ale.
The Prince assumed that he had killed Holland. Well, so be it. He had not liked the man anyway, but poisoning was not in his repertoire. That was more of a woman’s revenge.
Her knock was sharp and not unexpected. ‘Well?’
‘He thinks I killed Thomas.’
‘Did you?’ she asked.
‘You know very well that I did not!’
Joan smirked triumphantly. ‘Of course not.’ Dressed in widow’s weeds she was even more captivating and Salisbury felt the resentment. She remained as beautiful as the day he had married her but doubted she could recall any fond memories from their shared past. He kept his face carefully blank.
She unclasped the emeralds at her neck and dropped them into his open palm. ‘We are settled then?’
‘This is a little less than agreed,’ he replied, estimating their weight.
‘You did not bring me the body I requested.’ Her gaze settled on the one bag of gold he had left for her to see. ‘Besides, you have already been handsomely paid.’
‘Holland jewels no longer to your liking now that your husband is dead?’
‘I have my eye on a richer set,’ she boasted and marched from the room.
Salisbury sat upon the bed and kicked off his boots. So far he had collected two from three. The King had promised him a knight’s reward for the location of the Lady of Scotland. He was one step closer to having it all. He just had to find this last piece.
‘Since love is no basis for marriage, and the church forbids adultery, why, then, does God give us hearts at all?’ Cécile bent her head against the timber grille separating her from the priest. The stone floor of Chilham’s chapel was icy cold but so was the fear her father had instilled.
‘You must trust in the Lord, my child,’ came the soft reply. ‘Only He knows what will be required of you. Saint Jude always has an ear for a desperate cause. You might try praying to him.’
Cécile decided that it would be imprudent to confess to the priest that she was sick of praying.
‘Our Lord often demands sacrifices, striking the most favoured hard, only to reward them more richly,’ he continued. ‘We are all God’s servants and live to do His bidding. You must keep faith, my child.’
It would be easier to keep faith, thought Cécile miserably as she stumbled her way back to the manor, if there were no princes and long-lost fathers to complicate her life.
‘We will find a way,�
� Gillet had whispered to her the previous night as they lay wrapped in each other’s arms after a session of tender love-making. But he said it with no real conviction.
Cécile paused to stare up at the grey clouds. She could hear the rumbling sound of a storm. ‘Lord, just send me some sort of sign, something to help me keep faith.’ The thundering burst into an explosive clattering of hooves that spilled into the courtyard. Cécile’s mouth fell agape and she crossed herself.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God!’ Next she was waddling as fast as she could towards the herd of horses, her pattens clacking against the stonework as she squealed excitedly, ‘Armand!’
Gillet emerged from the new, partly-built stable, beaming as his grinning cousin leaped from Panache. The two men exchanged hearty greetings. Guiraud, Gabriel, Mouse and their squires dismounted and spilled over in wondrous dis-array. Two accompanying mules, fully laden with chests and cloth bundles, brayed excitedly.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ yelled Armand above the din, his face shining like Saint Michel after defeating Lucifer, ‘but we invited ourselves for Noël. It will be like old times,’ he laughed. He spun around to see Cécile and caught her in his grasp, swinging her around as though she weighed no more than a feather. ‘ Mon Dieu, I have missed you, ma petite.’ Soundly he delivered a smacking kiss to each of her cheeks.
‘Not so petite anymore,’ gasped Cécile as her feet found the earth again.
Armand held her arms wide, his appraisal thorough. ‘You look well, ché rie,’ he clucked. ‘I am pleased to see that my cousin is looking after you.’ He playfully pummelled Gillet’s arm. ‘Or else, sir, I would be forced to remove her from your care.’
‘Be my guest,’ snorted Gillet. ‘She is excessively difficult and squanders my hard-earned coin far too liberally. She would even spend God’s penny.’
Armand’s newly-bristled smirk grew wider. ‘Ho! You keep her, then.’ His hair was longer and he had not shaved recently, making the resemblance between the cousins even more remarkable. Cécile wondered again how she had not seen it on their escape from Paris.
Guiraud, Mouse and Gabriel tumbled towards them, each taking their turn with greetings, Guiraud registering surprise at Cécile’s motherly shape.
‘Faith be, lad,’ roared Mouse, delivering a hearty slap, ‘you gawk as though you have never seen a woman in child.’ The two older Albrets burst out laughing, as the youngest fiercely spun around.
‘Of course I have, you dotard! My sister can birth children faster than you can down ale. I just did not realise Cécile was so, so …’ He squinted, grasping for the elusive words as stead-fastly as a drowning man reaching for an overhead branch. ‘So far ahead in her time.’
Gabriel raised Cécile’s hand to his lips and bowed cour-teously. ‘And so fair a mother has not shone since the Holy Mother herself.’
‘God’s bones! Apart from the belly, your likeness to your sister is remarkable,’ boomed Mouse.
‘Oui,’ replied Armand, ‘I thought so too but, trust me, one is a kitten and the other a tiger. As to which is which,’ he winked, ‘I leave it to your own experiences to decide.’
The squires began to organise the removal of the luggage, under the direction of Alfred who had appeared from the stable.
‘We would have been here sooner, mayhap this morning,’ chirped Guiraud, ‘but for these two mules.’
‘Oh? Did they give you some trouble?’ asked Cécile, looking over to the animals. They seemed biddable enough, now that they had quit their incessant braying.
‘I’ll say,’ affirmed Armand. ‘Insisted on arguing at every bend in the road until, at last, swords were the only answer.’
Leaning against the quintain post, Gillet chuckled, but Cécile was confused. ‘Swords? For mules? Whatever did you do?’
‘Not those mules, Céci,’ spluttered Guiraud indecorously. He poked his finger into the air towards his companions. ‘Those two mules!’
With unspoken tenacity Mouse drew his sword and lunged at Gabriel, screeching the cry of a berserker. ‘Aha!’
Gabriel unsheathed his weapon, deftly blocking the thrust and parrying. Continuing their swordplay, they wove a path to where the real beasts of burden eyed their approach warily. Gabriel sprang and Mouse fell backwards, stumbling over an unloaded chest. His blade smacked flat against the beast’s rump and it bucked furiously, braying. The poor squire unloading it dived for cover. One box, half un-roped, crashed to the ground, and the men ceased their foolery to inspect the spilled goods. The hapless squire struggled in vain to settle his mutinous charge.
‘No harm done,’ yelled Gabriel, his blonde head emerging from the rubble. ‘Were there any breakables in your luggage, Albret?’
Armand’s face turned almond-white. ‘ Sacré bleu.’ He raced over to inspect the wreckage.
Gillet affectionately cuffed Guiraud’s shoulder. ‘Come. I will organise some refreshments. How long do you all have?’ The cousins looked to where Armand was merrily scooping up what looked like apples from the ground.
‘At least three weeks,’ replied Guiraud. ‘Captain du Guesclin has granted our company Yuletide leave.’
‘Three weeks?’ Gillet stroked his chin thoughtfully, but Cécile could see that he was delighted. ‘Well, then. I shall have to organise a lot more than just refreshment.’
‘Oui,’ replied Guiraud. They glanced back to where Mouse and Gabriel were wrestling on the ground, swords forgotten as Armand refereed, juggling the apples jester-style in between bites. ‘Much more.’
Dinner in the hall that evening was a rowdy affair and exactly what Cécile needed to lift her spirits. Margot had performed miracles in the kitchen, rousing the staff to fever pitch. Several removes worthy of the Palais Royal had hit the table hot from the oven, baked eel and garnished turnips, roasted veni-son served with several caramelised sauces, platters of pike coated in cinnamon onion, and trout in ginger to be followed by a selection of sugared fruit fancies. The wine flowed freely and the men recounted the highs and lows of their trip to Paris.
Minette and Veronique, now elevated to maid-companions, had been allowed to join the revelry and Cécile noted with delight how her young friend’s cheeks were warmed by more than just wine. Griffith, standing behind Gillet, re-filling his master’s goblet, cast numerous fleeting glimpses in her direction.
Gillet was in high spirits and, feeling generous, loudly claimed by the third remove that they were ‘men enough’ to fill their own cups. The delighted squires found themselves relieved of duty and seated alongside at the board.
Gillet glanced down the two rows of bobbing heads, upended tankards and cheerful faces. He smiled at Cécile. ‘I think it is going to be a long night.’
Gabriel drew up a stool next to Gillet and as they entered into a discussion, Cécile found herself under Armand’s cyanic gaze. He winked at her.
‘Reminds me of Arras, after the tourney, oui?’ He picked up her hand across the table and shook it. ‘Put aside your troubles for one night. Neither Gillet nor I will let Sir Thomas take you from us.’ His eyes slid to Gillet meaningfully, ‘He may be my cousin but I would have the truth. Are you happy with him?’
Cécile drew Armand’s sun-bronzed hand within hers and nodded. ‘Yes, Armand, very happy.’ Gillet burst out laughing as Gabriel’s fingers danced mid-air in some imitation, and she smiled warmly. ‘In fact, I have never been happier.’
Armand squeezed her fingers tightly. ‘So you do love him?’
‘As you knew I would.’
‘Then I am content.’ His grin disappeared into the depths of a tankard.
There was a sudden crash from the far end, a high-pitched scream, and a roar of accompanying mirth. An eyeball from the suckling pig platter had found its way into someone’s cup. Mouse thumped his arm onto the table, and the brawny soldier opposite him promptly took up the challenge. A vicious bout of arm wrestling began and, after five competitors’ knuckles had hit the board, Mouse bawled for another and singled out Griffith. �
��Come, lad!’
Griffith accepted, somewhat hesitantly, and Cécile whispered something to her maid.
‘I know that look,’ crowed Gillet, as Minette slid from her seat. ‘What did you just tell her?’
‘Hush. Your behemoth is about to be bested by a slip of a girl.’
‘Minette get the better of Mouse?’ cried Gillet, truly astonished. ‘I’ll wager you a new gown against it.’
‘A new gown? Done!’ Cécile spat on her palm and slapped it against Gillet’s.
Minette sidled up to the contestants with a jug of ale. Mouse welcomed the refreshment and drank his goblet dry. Then, arms bent at the elbow, the men grasped hands. Muscles bulged as forearms swayed, first one way and, with shifting strength, the other. Everyone held their breath, each person inhaling or exhaling sharply as their bet constantly shifted. Suddenly there was a piercing scream and Minette leaped onto the nearby bench, lifting her skirt and pointing at the floor.
‘A mouse!’ she screeched.
Griffith’s strength suddenly gained the upper hand. He slapped Mouse’s arm to the table only to find himself wrenched aside as his giant companion scrambled onto the board, scattering debris in all directions.
Furore ensued, with the current position of the non-existent creature heartily reported, until one wit declared it running out into the open. Mouse peered out from beneath the fruit bowl at the empty space. Calmly, Alfred announced, ‘I believe Griffith is the winner.’
Realising he’d been duped, Mouse rolled red-faced from the table. He swept Minette from her perch and spun the terrified girl around, bellowing good-naturedly. Griffith swiftly shot to his feet and drew his dagger, no longer humoured.
The Order of the Lily Page 25
