The Order of the Lily

by Catherine A. Wilson

  They lay in each other’s arms for some time, the candle all but spent.

  ‘And you are the Lady Mary’s nephew?’ mused Catherine.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  It was hard to believe, after all the years she had been known as Catherine Pembroke, she was now related by marriage to the very woman who had given her that name. ‘What will you do with the Lady once you find it?’

  ‘I am to return it to Paris. The Templars do not wish it to fall into English hands.’

  ‘Then why do they not give it back to the Scots?’

  ‘The Grand Master does not trust King David. He feels David would sell his own mother to gain his freedom, and you forget the man is married to Edward’s sister.’

  Catherine shook her head as she tried to make sense of it all.

  ‘The Lady is a powerful instrument. Should it become widely known that it is missing, the Scots will blame the English and the uneasy truce will fall apart. The Grand Master believes it should reside in Paris, on neutral ground, or they will hide it in one of their many temples vaults.’

  ‘But what do you think?’

  ‘I am really not sure.’

  ‘So we will look for her at Denny?’

  ‘I had thought to go alone.’

  ‘No, Simon, I can help you. I know every hiding place, every crevasse. It will make the search easier if I am at your side. And I am known to Sister Cletus. She is more likely to communicate with me than you.’

  He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. ‘First we shall see Gillet and your sister and decide the fate of Gabby. Then we will visit my aunt, to whom I will introduce my new wife.’

  Catherine listened to her husband’s gentle snores as he slept beside her. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined she would marry her guardian’s nephew. All this time she had been raised by his aunt. She grunted softly. Had Simon ever visited the abbey? Had their paths crossed earlier and she had not realised? Her mind whirled at the possibility. I must ask him, she thought, drifting into sleep as she tried recalling the endless visitors she had watched come and go at Denny over the years.

  Cécile padded across the cold floor to the casement and peeked out into the stable yard below to watch the beautiful snow-white mare, its silver tail flying like a pennant. Gillet had named her Starlight. He had presented the horse to her before he departed for Paris. ‘If we are to put Ruby in foal this year, you will need another horse to ride,’ he’d explained. Then he kissed her, long and hard, and was gone.

  The first week passed slowly, Cécile’s only joy a letter from her sister. Over and over she read how Gabriel had saved the baby – Gillet’s son, a child who would soon enter her life. She happily anticipated her twin’s arrival and her own babe was due any time now. Catherine would help her. Cécile pushed aside the fear that still her babe had not turned. She glanced over to her maid, Minette, who was quietly embroidering a tiny gown by the fire, a wistful smile upon her lips.

  A knock at the door disturbed their serenity. One look at Alfred’s face was enough to know that something was dread-fully amiss.

  ‘Lady d’Armagnac, we have visitors,’ he announced solemnly. ‘Seigneur de Vertheuil and his brother are waiting in the hall, and they request your immediate presence.’

  ‘Seigneur who?’ Cécile’s attention was distracted as Minette gasped and her needlework tumbled to the floor. The reaction set Cécile’s nerves on edge. ‘Who are these men to request anything of me at such a time?’ she asked, bewildered.

  ‘Seigneur de Vertheuil, milady,’ affirmed Alfred, ‘is Amanieu, the eldest of the Albrets, and the other you already know as Arnaud.’

  She felt the blood drain from her cheeks. ‘Arnaud has returned?’

  Alfred bowed. ‘They seem to be aware of the fact that Milord Ghillebert is not in residence, but they say that it is you to whom they wish to speak.’

  Cécile stared, dull witted, the power of speech temporarily deserting her, but eventually finding its way in a tortured whisper. ‘What do they want with me?’

  ‘Naturally, I informed them that you are in a tender state of health, but they ask me to tell you that, if you do not wish to appear in the hall, they will come to your chamber.’

  ‘No!’ Her heart raced. ‘Alfred, give me a moment to com-pose myself.’

  Alfred bowed again and stepped outside to wait. Minette dived for the chest, pulling out a warm, woollen gown and surcotte. Quickly Cécile dressed and Minette braided her mistress’ hair, then Alfred assisted her down the stairs. She paused at the bottom, out of breath and desperately trying to control the wild beating of her heart. What did Gillet’s brothers want with her? Arching her back to relieve the dull pain, she moved at a snail’s pace into the hall.

  The two brothers stood with their backs to the fire, and glowered at her entrance.

  Seigneur Amanieu was the taller, but of a heavier build and broader across the chest. Though older, his clearly chiselled features bore the Albret charm and distinction, his likeness to Gillet remarkable. Arnaud was as Cécile remembered. He sneered at her.

  ‘Lady d’Armagnac,’ said Amanieu, ‘please be seated.’ He indicated one of the chairs in front of the hearth. ‘That will be all, Captain de Vernon.’

  Alfred bowed, but did not relinquish his place, his eyes set upon his mistress.

  ‘I said that will be all, Captain. Be sure to close the door.’ Amanieu clasped his hands behind his back and nodded to his younger brother. ‘You were right. We have little time to spare.’

  Arnaud’s answering grin filled Cécile with horror. His cheeks bore three silver lines from where she had scratched him.

  ‘I will come straight to the point, Lady d’Armagnac. I am Amanieu d’Albret, Seigneur de Vertheuil, Seigneur de Vayres and Seigneur de Puynormand. I am the commanding force of this family and it has been brought to my attention that my youngest brother, Ghillebert, has taken upon himself a task that is not his to fulfil.’ He leaned over her and lowered his voice. ‘I assure you, we know who sired your child, Lady d’Armagnac.’

  His revelation stunned Cécile. She opened her mouth but no words came.

  ‘You are no more than a whore,’ spat Arnaud. He joined his brother in towering over her. ‘But you chose the wrong family with which to dally, strumpet. We will not allow your cuckoo into our nest. Not even the bastard egg of a Prince!’

  ‘Arnaud!’ Amanieu frowned at his brother before turning back to Cécile. ‘Lady d’Armagnac, there are some situations for which the Albret family cannot be held accountable. Your rightful place is in the royal court under the guidance of its trained physician, not hiding here in Chilham.’

  A wave of sickness rolled over Cécile. Her stomach lurched and nausea struck. She swallowed it down painfully. Somewhere behind her, she vaguely registered the sound of footsteps clomping up the stairs. ‘What makes you think I carry the child of the Prince?’ she protested weakly.

  Arnaud smirked. ‘Our sources are very reliable and, once pointed in the right direction, it was easy enough to confirm. You forget that we have the Prince’s ear.’ His voice dropped to a chilling tone. ‘How fortunate I encountered Gwynedd in London. It seems our faithful servant was dismissed from this house without our knowledge. You remember Gwynedd ap Ynyr, do you not, Cécile?’ He clamped a fist upon either side of the chair and leaned in close. ‘She remembers you.’

  Cécile felt a dull pounding in her head, and tangible thoughts fled into oblivion. It was as though she was in a terrible dream and could not wake. Arnaud’s wet lips quivered inches from her face like a salivating dog. They seemed to be moving so slowly. ‘What? Do you not find this humorous?’ he was saying. ‘Is it not amusing when someone interferes in your life?’

  ‘Enough, Arnaud. Pour us some wine.’ The younger Albret straightened and was lost to Cécile’s sight as Amanieu’s attention became fixed upon her condition. A thudding sound echoed from the floor above. ‘Mademoiselle, when is your babe due?’

  Cécile’s
mind searched for an answer, trying to pluck from its confusion the correct one, but she could not.

  ‘Please stand.’ Amanieu stepped forward, gallantly assisting her upright. His appraisal was brief and he affirmed, ‘We still have time. Sit.’

  Cécile blinked stupidly at this worthy adversary to Gillet’s handsome looks. His manner softened and he offered a somewhat conceited smile. ‘My wife, God rest her soul, bore me five children. You carry very high. For you to deliver, your child must fall lower.’

  Somewhere inside Cécile’s head were answers for these men, but she could not seize upon them. Why was Amanieu absurdly discussing the manner in which she carried? Too high? No. No, he was wrong. It was only that her unborn refused to turn. The babe could come any time now.

  Cécile drew a sudden breath as she realised their purpose. ‘Non, you … you … do not understand,’ she stammered. Like the planets and stars on Gillet’s charts, her thoughts began to shift into alignment, making sense at last – the physician, the Prince’s court, her rightful place. Mon Dieu. They meant to send her to Edward.

  ‘No!’ Cécile wanted to scream in terror but, as in a night-mare, her voice was barely a whisper. ‘You cannot do this. You cannot! Gillet will come. He will stop you.’

  Amanieu’s frown and Arnaud’s inane grin began to swirl, Cécile’s vision blurring as more sounds came from outside the hall, footsteps descending the stairs at a run.

  ‘Ghillebert will present himself,’ said Amanieu calmly. ‘He understands his duty.’

  Arnaud sniggered. ‘Why, Cécile, did Ghillebert not tell you that he met with us in London?’ He hovered above her, practically drooling. ‘Did he not inform you that King Edward, much pressed by the Earl of Kent, has secured for him a betrothal? Our youngest brother is to marry the King’s own niece.’ He hung over her like a cloud of sulphurous fumes, choking her.

  ‘No,’ croaked Cécile. ‘No. Gillet would have said something.’

  ‘Imagine our surprise,’ continued Arnaud, clearly enjoying himself, ‘when, upon discovering Amanieu’s and my presence in London, Lord Thomas Holland requested our audience to present our sovereign’s recommendations. Mary is the daughter of Eleanor, the Countess of Gueldres, and the King’s own sister. This marriage will secure the future of the Albrets with strong ties to the throne of England, and richly so. For his service, Ghillebert will be accorded a title and inherit enormous wealth.’

  ‘No. I don’t believe you!’ Cécile felt faint.

  ‘Believe this!’ Arnaud slapped a parchment bearing the royal seal onto Cécile’s lap. Her hands trembled as she unrolled and read the contractual agreement, Gillet’s name leaping from the pages.

  Amanieu refilled his goblet and Arnaud took advantage of the moment to whisper malevolently in her ear. ‘How much do you love my brother, Cécile? Hmm? Do you love him enough to let him go?’ His hate beat down upon her like the desert sun and any resolve she had crumbled into dust.

  ‘You can appreciate, Lady d’Armagnac,’ said Amanieu, returning to stand beside his brother, ‘that with the Princess Mary arriving here soon, it is inconvenient to have Ghillebert’s mistress in residence. The name of Armagnac is not welcome here, and the burden you carry is no longer our concern.’

  Another wave of nausea hit Cécile and the rest of Amanieu’s words writhed through a distorted haze. ‘The banns will be called in March, and the wedding is to take place on the twenty-eighth. Be assured that our brother knows from which loaf his bread is torn.’

  ‘I hear that Princess Mary is very beautiful,’ added Arnaud. ‘And I suspect she will strongly object to Ghillebert keeping a mistress.’ He scooped his cup from the mantel and raised it triumphantly. ‘Did I mention that she is untouched? A pure bride who eagerly awaits a husband’s loving caress.’

  The goblet slipped from Cécile’s grasp, spilling its blood-red contents over the rug. She felt her throat closing in and struggled to draw breath. A powerful pain surged through her body as though Arnaud had driven his own fist into her.

  ‘Enough, Arnaud!’ said Amanieu. ‘You can see that this has come as a shock to the lady. Lady d’Armagnac?’

  Cécile closed her eyes tightly, each breath sounding like a tortured animal as she fought this new dread.

  ‘Lady d’Armagnac?

  The acute pain in her lower half was easing, but her chest was constricting. Cécile knew if she were to avert an attack of asthma she had to stay calm.

  ‘Arnaud, bring Lady d’Armagnac another cup of wine.’ Amanieu kneeled beside her, a look of compassion softening his features as he studied the pained blue eyes. ‘Ghillebert could never have married you, Lady d’Armagnac. You do know that, don’t you?’

  A knock sounded at the door and one of the servants appeared, pale-faced. ‘Milords, the lady’s chest is packed.’

  Cécile’s head began to spin.

  ‘Come,’ invited Amanieu kindly, offering his hand. ‘It is time for you to take your leave.’

  She took his hand, placed one foot in front of the other and pitched headfirst into blackness.

  Cécile awoke to a constant rocking. Beside her, Minette sighed with relief.

  ‘God be praised, milady.’

  They were jolted at intervals, and then thrown sharply sideways.

  Cécile doubled up in agony. ‘Mon Dieu,’ she gasped, clenching her teeth. She fell back onto cushions, the breath still tight in her chest, and took note of her surroundings. Leather curtains hung on either side, barely discernible in the glow of a small candle wedged into an iron holder. She was lying on a makeshift straw mattress, supported by a wooden chest beneath. Another pain wracked her body.

  ‘We are in a charette, milady, a carriage,’ said Minette angrily. ‘Those filthy animals are sending you to Calais.’

  Cécile dragged herself up with a sense of bewilderment, dark memories tugging at the corners of her mind. ‘Calais?’

  ‘Oui, milady. May those devils rot in hell for what they have done!’

  ‘Minette, what is happening?’

  ‘We are dispatched to Calais, milady, where an escort awaits to accompany us to Bordeaux.’

  ‘Bordeaux?’

  ‘Yes, to the Prince of Wales. He is there on his father’s estate.’

  Cécile’s gasp was cut short as she held her breath against another wave of pain. As it eased, the women stared at each other in horror.

  ‘Sweet Jesu. We are out in the open,’ wailed Cécile. ‘Oh, dear Lord, I have no midwife.’

  ‘Hush, milady, hush,’ soothed Minette. ‘As soon as this carriage stops, I shall inform them your baby comes and you can travel no further.’

  Cécile reached out to grab Minette’s arm. ‘No. Some women lie in labour for days so pray we make it to the ship. I would have my child born on French soil or even open sea rather than this Hell!’

  Minette nodded. ‘Then be comforted to know that Captain de Vernon is amongst those in our attendance. As soon as we arrive in Calais, he plans to ride to Paris to Monsieur Ghillebert.’

  The women passed the journey in prayer. Cécile’s pain abated and with this comfort they slept a little. The miles rolled by, the bleak winter sun fading in the marbled sky. At the port the winds were favourable and the captain was anxious to set sail.

  Cécile and Minette were locked into the Captain’s cabin. As they boarded, Alfred had coughed his presence and managed a wink. Cécile was grateful for the loyalty of her servants, but alone and able to think at last, she grieved her losses, her horses, Ruby and Starlight, and her cats, Cinnamon and Nutmeg. Under her sable cloak she nursed the small chest of moonstones that, thanks to Minette’s quick thinking, had been smuggled aboard the charette, though almost everything else of value to her was left behind.

  The passage over the sea that night elicited a host of memories for Cécile. As she hovered over the wooden bucket, she began to wonder if she had travelled any further on the path of her life, or was she merely sailing in circles? Was it inevitable that she would e
nd up back in Edward’s arms? It was in the smallest hours of the morning that the first real pain gripped her. She clambered from the cot, alarmed by its severity. Minette was instantly at her side, supporting her as she walked the boards, trying to gain relief. At its conclusion, Cécile fell to her knees to pray in earnest, knowing full well her time had come. Her babe still had not turned.

  As the hours dragged one into the next, Minette wiped Cécile’s damp brow and offered encouragement. By dawn the pain ceased and Cécile fell into an exhausted slumber only to be woken by the bustling noise of a port. Minette’s tired smile greeted her.

  ‘We have arrived, milady.’ She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Your babe will be born on French soil.’

  The women were escorted down the gangway and, despite her impending ordeal, Cécile’s heart leaped with elation. She was back in France! She was home.

  She had only reached the bottom of the ramp when suddenly she felt faint. Thinking it to be the sea sways, she reached for the rail but she felt a warm surge. Mystified, she lifted her hem to find her shoes soaked and water running down her ankles.

  ‘’Tis the birth waters,’ gasped Minette. ‘Milady, your babe is coming with all haste.’

  The next hours of Cécile’s life were some of the darkest she had ever known. Carried by a litter to the closest inn, heavy sums of coin were exchanged and a midwife hurriedly engaged. Cécile was installed into a chamber and, although the concern had been that she would deliver on the dock, it was far from the way of things. She lay in a tormented haze of pain for hour upon hour, with vague memories of Minette sponging her. She underwent a constant and hurtful poking and prodding and by the time the midwife threw up her bloodied hands in desperation, Cécile was in fever.

  ‘I cannot deliver. Get a physician and hurry!’

  In the early hours of the twenty-seventh day of January, God granted her mercy, and Cécile d’Armagnac delivered a healthy son. His entrance into the world extracted a heavy toll, but the previous hours fell away when the tiny newborn was placed into her arms. Cocooned in blankets, her baby blinked up at her with clouded eyes. Never had she felt such a rush of affection. His tiny features were wrinkled like an old man’s, screwed in anguish, his skin turning the colour of boiled beets, and toothless gums quivering as he wailed a most unholy noise.