The Order of the Lily

by Catherine A. Wilson

  By early afternoon the men had consumed a great deal of both food and ale, and a desire to stretch their muscles had them searching for more vigorous entertainment.

  ‘Quintains!’ Mouse and Gabriel thumped upon the board, the cups dancing as the men chanted. ‘Quintains! Quintains! Quintains!’ There was a mad dash up the stairs to don armour and, by the time Cécile waddled into Gillet’s chamber, he had torn apart every chest.

  ‘I can’t remember where I stowed my armour!’ Four eager, boyish faces appeared at the threshold, Armand already suited, the other three haphazardly pulling on pieces.

  ‘Come on, Gillet!’

  His desperation grew and he spun around in circles, flinging out his arms, growling with frustration.

  ‘Did you not send it for cleaning after we returned from Broughton?’ Cécile remarked calmly.

  ‘Mai oui. I remember now! I stored it in the other chamber.’ Hastily bestowing a kiss upon her, he raced from the room, his playmates fast behind him, but there was soon a loud burst of reverberating laughter.

  ‘Saaayseeele!’

  Wondering what new disaster had occurred, Cécile trudged to the door, one hand smoothing her motherly condition. She had only a handful of weeks left.

  ‘Saayseele! Cécile.’

  ‘Gillet, I am moving as fast as I possibly can!’

  She was greeted by the sight of Armand, doubled over, his metal-plated arms wrapped around his stomach as he choked with laughter. Guiraud and Gabriel were similarly postured, the latter squatting and threatening to topple in his mirth. Gillet glowered at them, holding out his helm, which was dripping water. Only Mouse appeared rational, his face illuminated by wonderment as he bent over the remaining armour.

  ‘Cécile,’ snarled Gillet as she entered. ‘Did you not tell me that you prepared a basket for Cinnamon?’

  ‘Oui. It is in my room.’

  He swept his ‘hooting comrades’ with an icy glare. ‘Well, did you explain that to Cinnamon?’

  ‘Come on, Gillet,’ gulped Armand hysterically. ‘ Hurry up, it’s kitten late!’

  There was another raucous outburst, and Gabriel’s gauntlet fisted the floor. ‘Oui,’ squealed Guiraud. ‘Before the weather changes and it starts raining cats and dogs!’ All three fell backwards, howling, and Gillet threw down his helm in disgust.

  ‘Merde! Griffith will labour all afternoon to clean this mess. I need my mail now.’

  ‘This mess,’ Cécile had just discovered, was Cinnamon’s bundle of new arrivals, and the cause of Gillet’s ill temper. The cat had seen fit to deliver her young within the confines of his armour. It would seem that she had taken refuge first in his helm, then sought his breastplate, conveniently thrown upside-down, shell-like, upon the floor.

  ‘Oh, Gillet,’ Cécile purred with delight. ‘She preferred your steel to my silk.’

  Gillet raked his hair in annoyance. ‘That much is obvious. Can we at least move them to the basket?’

  ‘Non,’ exclaimed Mouse in horror, his finger tenderly running over the pelt of a tiny kitten. ‘You cannot move newborns.’

  ‘I would hazard to say, brother dear,’ said Margot, sauntering in, full of smiles, ‘that, come morning, you will find Cinnamon has moved them by herself, now that her hiding place is discovered. And, though Cécile lovingly prepared a wonderful basket, I should have told her that the cat probably would not use it.’ Amidst the tyranny of Cinnamon’s bad behaviour, Cécile did not miss Armand’s wink to Margot. ‘Is quintain practice so dangerous that you must don armour?’ she asked, her cheeks reddening.

  ‘We were going to pass lances and cross swords as well,’ came Gillet’s petulant reply. ‘And unless you prefer a brother full of holes, yes, it was.’

  ‘And, in a manor so well appointed as this one, you have no other mail?’

  ‘Armand and I sorted the pieces last week. Most have gone to the armourer for repairs.’

  ‘Then, with all your companions in residence, are there not a few pieces that might be borrowed?’

  ‘I have a camail,’ said Gabriel. ‘Or perhaps I should say cam-eeowl!’ There was a barely suppressed splutter.

  ‘And I have a spare pair of steel mesh kittens,’ chortled Guiraud. ‘Sorry, I meant to say mittens.’ Quivering lips were drawn tight.

  They were all perched on the brink of an abyss, filled with side-splitting laughter, and they knew it. Only Mouse seemed to share Gillet’s feelings for this untimely predicament.

  ‘Agh, come on, lads.’ He rose and clapped his meaty paw on Gillet’s shoulder. ‘This is no time for joking. Ill fate has befallen our comrade’s armour. This is no trifling thing. ’Tis a terrible cat- astrophe!’

  A wild bellow of long overdue laughter burst from everyone. Gillet finally capitulated, grinning as Mouse lifted him in a crushing bear hug.

  Cécile woke unexpectedly before dawn the following morning, feeling famished. Assured the heavy breathing beside her meant Gillet was still sound asleep, his exertions at quintains the previous day having taken their toll, she slipped from the covers to raid the kitchen’s pantry. As she was smuggling her illicit consignment back to her room, Margot’s door cracked open and Armand furtively stepped out. He lacked a doublet, the laces of his chausses were indecently loose, and his bedraggled hair looked as though he had just rolled from the Cotswolds to Dover. Stupefied, Cécile stared as he blew a kiss back into the room before quietly closing the door. He turned and, finding himself observed, blushed rosily.

  ‘Armand! What …?’

  ‘Sshhh, Céci. Hush, please.’ He guided her to her chamber door.

  ‘Armand, the last time I looked, your bed was in there,’ she hissed, stabbing the air towards the room on the far side of Gillet’s. ‘That,’ she pointed up the hall, ‘is Margot’s chamber.’

  ‘I never could fool you, ché rie,’ he simpered.

  ‘Armand!’ She stamped her foot softly, but her voice elevated with each syllable. ‘She is the wife of Gillet’s brother. Your own cousin’s wife. Do you realise what you do?’

  ‘Ssshhh! Please lower your voice.’

  ‘My voice is lowered. ’Tis my temper that rises!’

  ‘Please, Céci. It just happened. It was not planned.’

  ‘Do you mean to say that you two actually …’

  He gripped her elbow in agitation. ‘ Sacré bleu. Hush. After you and Gillet retired last night, we all began to play chess and, well, after a few ales, Margot and I entered into a silly wager.’

  ‘What wager?’ whispered Cécile venomously.

  ‘Aaah …’ He pressed his finger against her lips, but she bit it. ‘Ow!’

  ‘Ssshh,’ she hissed, panic-stricken that they would wake Gillet. ‘What wager?’

  Armand sucked his injury resentfully. ‘A chivalrous knight does not tell.’

  ‘Armand, you will have more than my plaguey teeth after you if Gillet learns of this. Mon Dieu.’ She felt almost faint at the thought. ‘ What if Arnaud should find out?’

  Armand frowned sulkily. ‘There is no reason that he would. Margot is hardly likely to tell him, is she now?’

  ‘So that makes it above board, does it? Did you even consider the consequences? Do you not think Arnaud will notice if Marguerite is swollen like a steeped plum when he bids her return?’

  ‘Merde, Cécile! You are acting the shrew. Do you think me so foolish? There are ways, you know,’ he retaliated.

  ‘Do not “merde” me! I am not stupid, but I hardly think Margot has prepared herself. A vinegar sponge will not work after the event. Even I know that!’

  Armand smiled with a hint of sadness. ‘I am sorry, sweetheart. I sometimes forget how innocent you are still.’

  Cécile glowered indignantly. ‘Not so innocent, Armand-Amanieu d’Albret. Grant Gillet with some expertise on the subject. He is an excellent tutor.’

  Armand’s grin flashed. ‘Beneath the sheets? But of course, he’s Albret! But, in your case, he had no need to teach you this.’

&n
bsp; The chamber door opened and Gillet appeared in his braies, scratching his head sleepily. ‘Teach her what?’ He gave a jaw-breaking yawn. ‘What am I lacking in teaching Cécile?’

  Armand raked his cousin with a glance and snorted at Cécile. ‘So, it is permissible for you.’ He faced Gillet. ‘Keeping her nose out of trouble.’

  Cécile was ready to draw blood. ‘Keeping my nose out of trouble?’

  Gillet frowned, his observance darting between Cécile and Armand and, noting the state of his cousin’s undress, he glanced sideways down the hall. Armand had the grace to blush. Gillet sighed heavily. ‘I thought we agreed, Armand.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ he pointed to Cécile’s haul, ‘you should have kept her bedside aumbry full. Mayhap a “horn of plenty” would be a better investment.’

  Gillet surveyed the collection of food in Cécile’s hands. He tugged her into the room, grimacing wryly. ‘It was full last night. Get some sleep, Armand, you look terrible.’

  ‘You knew? You knew.’ accused Cécile, the minute the door was closed.

  Gillet resurfaced from under the bed, having located his missing chausse. He sat down to draw it on, his lips pressed in a tight line.

  Cécile eyed him with suspicion. ‘But how could you have known? According to Armand, we had already retired.’ Her eyes widened. ‘This is not the first time, is it?’

  Gillet’s face remained passive but his cheeks grew pink. ‘No.’

  ‘And you accept this?’

  He glanced at her briefly. ‘What is to accept? Two people, both lonely during the season of giving and sharing.’ He paused in tying his laces. ‘What is so wrong, Cécile? It happens all the time.’

  ‘Not under my roof!’ she exclaimed, collapsing beside him.

  He leaned forward and brushed his lips over hers. ‘ My roof, sweetheart.’

  ‘But what of Arnaud? He is your brother.’

  ‘A misfortune of fate, and one of which I care not to be reminded. Do you forget what he did to you?’ Gillet tied the final knot on his chausse and then sighed. ‘Sweetheart, any keep that is left unprotected will eventually be plundered and, whether or not you approve, Armand is a free lance. He can bed any or as many women, maids, whores, and it happens, wives, as he likes. If he chooses to run a dangerous list that is his concern, not yours.’

  ‘The list is not his to run. What of the physical consequences?’

  Gillet smiled briefly as he secured his second chausse. ‘There are ways to avoid complications.’

  ‘Oh, oui! Armand was quick to inform me,’ she chided peevishly. ‘You have been neglectful in some of your teachings, mon amour.’

  ‘Ah. I begin to understand the conversation I interrupted. It is nothing so imaginative, Cécile, simply “coitus interrup-tus”. The man withdraws before any seed is spilled into the womb.’ Gillet pulled his lacing taut and then, capturing her chin, pressed a kiss against her mouth. ‘No seed, no child.’ Disappearing under a billow of linen, he wriggled into his shirt and scooped up his doublet. ‘I must meet with Llewellyn but if you would like I shall return with some suitable refreshment.’ He eyed her stolen sugary treats.

  ‘So you do not perceive any wrongdoing in Armand tup-ping a married woman?’

  Gillet shrugged his shoulders. ‘It happens. We did not tell you because Armand did not want you to worry.’

  ‘And the fact that Margot is married?’

  Gillet’s face split in a teasing grin. ‘I do not know why you find this so disturbing. You lay nearly every night with a married man!’ He ducked quickly and sensibly quit the room before a custard pastry splattered against the door at head height.

  By early afternoon, Armand slid sheepishly next to Cécile at the board. ‘Still friends?’ he smooched, kissing her cheek. ‘Come on,’ he pinched her leg playfully, ‘forgive me.’

  Gillet’s eyebrows slowly rose in question and Cécile’s will crumbled. He leaned toward her. ‘What would you say if I told you that our conversation this morning has inadvertently helped solve a problem?’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. Our guests shall take their leave soon and, while Mouse accompanies Gabriel to visit with his sister, Armand goes to Arras to see the Mesdames. I was considering that Margot should accompany him. Since Arnaud has deserted her, I will declare her abandoned, and take her into my custody. Lord Felton is still anxious to make amends for the mishandling of your case, and he would gladly agree.’

  Cécile knew that the bailiff had been at pains to repair his relationship with Gillet and, consequently, a successful confession was squeezed from the men arrested at the mill. Gillet learned that Humphrey de Bohun, the man whom Cécile outbid at the auction, was responsible for orchestrating the destruction. His father, William, had passed on recently and the young Earl of Hereford thought to make himself more powerful by sabotaging the Albrets’ mill. He had been severely reprimanded and Gillet was left with no doubt that losing the Andalusian had not sweetened Bohun’s temper.

  ‘Margot will be happier in Arras,’ said Gillet, returning his thoughts to the topic at hand. ‘And she will be far from her husband’s whips and bridles.’

  Cécile gave a long sigh. ‘Yes. I suppose so.’

  Gillet squeezed her hand. ‘Perhaps Arras will be your salvation from Sir Thomas also, once you deliver of the child?’

  She could see that the festive interlude had not entirely prevented Gillet from dwelling upon their problem. Cécile gazed around the cheerful, noisy hall. It had been a wonderful, warm and happy Christmas. Her heart leapt at the suggestion of seeing the Mesdames again but thoughts of her impending lie-in and her father’s threat snapped her back to reality. A sudden cold chill crept over her.

  Dearest Sister

  As I write this to you, my foot rocks a cradle, the tiny infant within snuffling softly as he struggles to settle after a long day. His dark, downy head is just visible above the blankets tucked around him. But where do I begin? I know that you will want to hear all about Gil et’s son, but mayhap I should tel you firstly of the circumstances of his arrival.

  Catherine rested the quill upon the parchment and peered down at the bundle by her feet. It had been agreed that the babe should remain with Anaïs for at least several weeks, as they had been unable to secure the services of a reputable wet-nurse. So his sudden arrival was as unexpected as the commotion he brought with him.

  She recalled her first impression of the boy. He had not evoked feelings of protectiveness as he opened his mouth and wailed. An exasperated Simon struggled to settle the child in his arms, unable to cope with the situation that had befallen him. The patrons in the tavern seemed mesmerised by the fury unleashed by something so small.

  The wife of the innkeeper strode over and, taking the infant, slipped her finger into his mouth. ‘He is hungry, Monsieur,’ she offered, as she clucked over him and directed one of her girls to bring the midwife. ‘She will know of someone who can suckle him.’

  A further distressing ten minutes crept by as they awaited salvation, Simon pacing whilst Catherine peered with amazement at the new life in front of her. The poor soul was quickly losing interest with the unproductive digit and resumed his high-pitched assault on their ears. Simon was seriously considering the innkeeper’s suggestion to feed him ale, when a large and extremely intoxicated woman all but fell into the room. Assessing the mayhem that confronted her, she did not wait for comment, but released her swollen breast from the confines of her dirty gown and placed her nipple into the nursling’s hungry mouth.

  Silence ensued. The innkeeper, his wife, three scullery maids, numerous patrons, Simon and Catherine all stared at the swaying prostitute as she fed the ravenous baby. The woman collapsed heavily on a bench and thrust her hand out towards Lord Wexford.

  ‘Fee,’ she hiccoughed.

  Simon turned his back and leaned on the board.

  ‘Fee,’ she repeated, withdrawing her nipple from the child’s mouth.

  ‘I do not give coin to whores,’ retorted Si
mon, his disgust apparent as she held her breast teasingly close to the baby’s eager, searching mouth. ‘Rather, in exchange, meals and accommodation.’

  ‘And wine,’ she interjected.

  ‘One jug.’

  ‘Two!’

  ‘Done,’ he agreed, but Catherine knew he was not happy.

  Catherine returned the satiated newborn to their quarters and placed him in the cradle hastily procured by one of the staff.

  ‘Simon …’

  ‘Before you begin, I want to state that we had little choice. She may be a prostitute and a drunk, but she has what we need and that is all there is to it.’

  ‘She is filthy … and …’

  ‘So we will get her a bath and water down her drink.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Catherine, I had to take him. Anaïs was harming him and herself. He needs to be fed and until I can come up with an alternative, the whore stays.’

  The babe slept for several hours as did Catherine, until woken by his hungry cries. Unsure what to do, she laid him on the bed and released him from his blanket. Someone had clothed him in a long woollen gown, his feet and hands covered by bags, making them look much bigger than they really were. His elfin face was screwed into a ball, his eyelids squeezed tight, his nose flattened and flared as he drew breath in between his protests. Catherine touched his tiny ears and marvelled at their beauty, just so perfect.

  A heavy knock at the door revealed the prostitute. However, she no longer looked quite so sure of herself. The ragged dress was gone, replaced by a serviceable gown and surcote. Her hair, previously lank and dirty, now curled about her shoulders. She sat beside Catherine and unlaced her dress before settling to feed the infant, whispering French endearments as he hungrily devoured her milk.

  ‘You wish me to change his bands?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Catherine replied, retreating hastily, her newfound confidence now waning.