The Order of the Lily

by Catherine A. Wilson

  ‘Mademoiselle, you forget yourself,’ declared Amanieu. ‘You may not speak to Princess Mary that way.’

  ‘Princess,’ Catherine scoffed. ‘Mary is no more a princess than I, or Cécile, for that matter. We share the same blood but it takes more than just breeding to make a lady, as my twin has taught me.’

  ‘I don’t have to stay and listen to this,’ blustered Mary. ‘You have no right to burst into this house, and speak to me this way. I have no intention of giving up my marriage to Ghillebert. Our contractual agreement is binding, is it not, Amanieu?’

  Arnaud moved to Mary’s side, his eyes flashing. ‘Yes, it is binding. It would seem, Lady Wexford, that you share the same qualities as your sister. She was nothing more than a wilful, interfering wench.’

  ‘Because she removed the scold’s bridle from your wife’s face? And took a dunking punishment, as arranged by you?’ Catherine cried with anguish.

  ‘It is a husband’s right to control his wife in any way he sees fit. She should not have interfered.’

  ‘What else have you failed to share with me, brother?’ demanded Amanieu. ‘I begin to suspect that you have not told me the complete story.’

  ‘A scold’s bridle?’ whispered Mary, her countenance paling.

  ‘Yes,’ Catherine confirmed, ‘so you may consider yourself lucky yet, Mary, for surely you do not wish to align with such a family.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You are aware of the manner in which these men recently disposed of Cécile when she stood in the way of your union with Ghillebert?’

  Mary swallowed nervously.

  ‘But did you know that the bridle was spiked, an instrument of torture?’ Catherine added, watching Mary’s eyes grow wider. ‘And you might also be interested to learn that your beloved, future husband was present as my sister was dunked, over and over into freezing water, she more than three months’ gone with child at the time.’

  Mary’s complexion faded to white. She blinked several times but a kindling of understanding lit and her eyes narrowed. ‘You lie! Lies! All lies! You covet him for your sister’s sake.’ She raised her head to Amanieu. ‘Tell me this vile creature is wrong and Ghillebert does not love that other woman. I want your word that all is well.’

  The brothers offered nothing, their mouths taut with displeasure.

  ‘Then I will seek advice from the King! I cannot help but wonder what he will say when he hears of this.’ She lifted her skirt and stormed out without a backwards glance.

  ‘Is this all true?’ demanded Amanieu of his brother.

  Simon slapped his hand heavily on the shoulder of the younger Albret brother. ‘I believe that Arnaud, here, has a great deal of explaining to do. I have the impression that he may have tainted some of the information he has imparted.’

  Arnaud pulled away, sneering. ‘You know nothing!’

  ‘It would appear so,’ said Amanieu. A look of contempt passed between the siblings. ‘I may have judged Cécile harshly, and for this I feel a great deal of regret.’

  ‘Regardless of what you think of my sister, I cannot forgive you your treatment of her. To toss her, unconscious, into a carriage and have her sent across the sea only hours before she was to give birth is despicable. Imagine, if you will, sir, what would happen to you and your family, should my nephew die.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard correct. My sister all but gave birth on the docks of Calais, thanks to you and your brother.’

  The full impact of his decision was now bearing down on Amanieu’s racing mind.

  ‘Yes, you not only risked Céci’s life but also that of her child, a possible future king of England.’

  ‘Her child would never sit on the throne!’ choked Arnaud. ‘He’s a bastard!’

  Catherine spun to face him. ‘Ah, but it wouldn’t be the first time a bastard from France has taken the English throne, would it?’ She smiled sweetly, her revenge complete.

  ‘Shut up, Arnaud!’ Amanieu paced in front of the fire. ‘If we find ourselves out of favour because of your stupidity, our name will be irreparably damaged. You need to apologise to our guests.’

  ‘I do not apologise to English dogs or their bitches,’ hissed Arnaud. Simon’s took several paces towards Arnaud but Amanieu was closer, dragging his sibling against the wall.

  ‘Apologise,’ he yelled, his grip constricting Arnaud’s throat.

  ‘Release me, brother, or you will regret it!’ Arnaud wrestled to draw his dagger but Simon was quick to respond, his own blade flashing in the light.

  Amanieu let go. ‘Our family shall not suffer because of you.’

  ‘Oh, you can be sure that my mother and the Prince of Wales will hear of Arnaud’s actions,’ snapped Catherine. ‘It is my duty, after all.’

  Arnaud leapt in her direction but Simon was instantly between them. Glad to give his temper rein at last, his fist flew. Arnaud tumbled backwards, blood pouring from his lip and his grimace revealing a gap. Simon had knocked out a tooth!

  ‘You have cast shame upon our family!’ roared Amanieu. ‘Pack your things and get out of this house!’

  Arnaud sheathed his dagger and, wiping his mouth, slunk from the room.

  The atmosphere relaxed perceptively as Arnaud could be heard leaving through the main door of the house. Catherine wanted desperately to collapse into the nearest seat, but it was not yet over. There was still the remaining Albret.

  ‘My brother may not have been able to apologise, but allow me to extend that courtesy. Might I inquire after your sister’s health?’ he asked.

  ‘No, you may not,’ she rudely retorted.

  ‘Then perhaps you could convey my best wishes and inform her that I meant no harm. If what you say is true, and Ghillebert is in love with your sister, then I am truly sorry for the circumstances in which he now finds himself. You must understand, Lady Wexford, ’twas your own father who insisted that Cécile be evicted from this house, and from Ghillebert’s arms. We merely accepted his offer which is, as Mary says, irrefutable. The King himself has approved the marriage.’

  ‘It matters little to me. I am simply pleased that Cécile will no longer be tied to your family, sir, given her recent treatment at your hands.’

  ‘I assure you that Ghillebert was not aware of our decision to send your sister back to France.’

  ‘This much we know to be true,’ Simon added as he grasped Catherine’s hand and turned to leave.

  ‘I can have accommodation made available for you. I know that Ghillebert would make you most welcome in his home,’ offered Amanieu, but Simon and Catherine shook their heads simultaneously.

  Simon summoned the young servant girl, who scurried away to retrieve Gabby. Catherine withdrew to the corridor and sat down to wait. Several servants appeared at the top of the stairs, struggling with a succession of chests. They were followed by a number of well-dressed maids, all fussing over Lady Mary.

  She sighted Catherine and made her way over. ‘You may be the daughter of Joan, but you are no cousin of mine!’

  ‘It is difficult, is it not? One cannot choose one’s relatives,’ said Catherine.

  ‘You underestimate my position. This marriage was one I approved but I will not have you make a fool of me to the court!’

  ‘You would never have been happy in this marriage, Mary. Gillet loves Cécile and always has. There is something magical between them that neither of them can resist nor deny. You never stood a chance.’

  ‘I hate you,’ shrieked Mary. ‘I hope you and your sister go to Hell!’ She spun on her heel and marched through the door, her entourage falling in line behind her.

  ‘I hope you are never in need of assistance from your cousin,’ said Simon, leaning against the banister, ‘for you made an enemy today.’

  ‘I don’t care if I never see her again,’ replied Catherine coolly.

  The maid returned a few minutes later with a content baby Gabby, along with a large basket of refreshments. As Catherine reached for
ward to take the infant, the girl tentatively bent and kissed her fingers. ‘Thank you, Lady Wexford,’ she said. ‘If it pleases M’lady, we would like your sister to know that we care for her horses, and the kittens do well.’

  ‘Thank you,’ acknowledged Catherine, warmly. ‘I will make sure she is told.’

  As they joined the road to London, Catherine could not help but stare in the direction of Dover.

  ‘We cannot go back to France, not yet anyway,’ said Simon.

  ‘I know,’ whispered Catherine. Relief from the last few hours swept over her but the pain of separation was immense. Tears slid unhindered down her cheeks. ‘It seems such a small thing to want, but a far greater thing to achieve.’

  Cécile and Minette endured two days of torturous travel in freezing weather. Beneath the heavy canvas covering that kept out most of the icy wind, they tried to pacify the babe. Every rattle of the cart sent hot knives of pain down Cécile’s back and legs. Jean Petit cried for longer than he slept. By the time they reached Arras the babe was exhausted and Cécile was consumed with fever. The vendor wasted no time in delivering his distasteful load. The woman and child were sick and everyone knew pestilence travelled from the ports.

  Minette cradled Jean Petit in one arm, his dwarfish face screwed in a restless sleep, as she assisted his barely conscious mother from the cart. The vendor threw their possessions onto the ground and, with a grunt, quickly departed. The front door of the manor opened and Mesdames Rosetta and Violetta stuck out their heads curiously. Recognising Cécile, they rushed forward, alongside them, Margot and Veronique, all squealing with delight.

  Cécile managed a weak smile before falling into the flames of her own Hell.

  For two weeks Cécile d’Armagnac lay in a delirious state, fighting for the will to live. Many times the good ladies placed Jean Petit into her arms, urging her to recover.

  In despair, Margot would remove him and rock the squall-ing babe to sleep. ‘It’s as though she wishes for death,’ she muttered sadly. The three ladies sat around the bed and gazed at one another in anguish. In her delirium, Cécile spoke of much.

  Rosetta stood up and tied her hanging sleeves behind her back. ‘Well I, for one, will not sit here and watch her die! I shall prepare every potion I know to get this girl back on her feet. She has a child who needs his mother.’

  Under Dame Rosetta’s constant brewing and the dedicated administering from the women, the infection invading Cécile’s body gradually abated. Slowly, even against her will, she began to recover. A pallet had been placed in her room and Minette stayed by her side, day and night, faithfully attending her. Margot and Veronique devoted themselves to the care of the baby. A wet-nurse had been employed and, for most part, Jean Petit was content.

  ‘He doesn’t need me,’ whispered Cécile feebly, waking one morning to watch as her son was fed. Five female faces anxiously peered over her.

  Margot picked up Cécile’s limp, waxen hand and stroked it. ‘Of course he does, and so do we.’

  Cécile lapsed back into sleep. Margot turned to Madame Rosetta. ‘The infection has all but gone. Why does she not stay awake?’

  ‘Her body heals but her heart does not,’ answered Rosetta. ‘She has no wish to wake, for then she must face what troubles her. But sooner or later she must. Only the dead sleep forever.’

  By the middle of the following week, Cécile was able to sit up in bed and cradle her son for short periods. It was during one of these sessions that Rosetta told Cécile that she must make a short journey. The Mesdames’ brother had passed away in England and, having no heir of his own, had left his inheritance to his sisters.

  ‘He dabbled in the wool trade,’ she rolled her eyes. ‘Thought more of sheep than women!’ She brushed aside Cécile’s condolences. ‘Bah! We were never close. I’m surprised he remembered us at all.’ But Rosetta’s smile lit up her wrinkled features and she clasped her hands beneath her chin. ‘At last,’ she breathed ecstatically, ‘we shall have the much needed coin to repair our beloved home.’

  In Rosetta’s absence, Dame Violetta tutted over Cécile’s ‘skin and bone’ appearance and plied her with platters and ton-ics. Cécile had little appetite for food, or life in general outside her chamber. Her only comfort was her son and, though she could no longer feed him, she kept his cot by her bedside. She began to tend him for herself, doting upon his every whim.

  Dame Rosetta returned from her trip and she brought with her a letter from Catherine.

  Cécile dismissed Minette, who had now been relocated to the next chamber with Veronique, and glancing at her sleeping infant, eagerly cut open the laced edge upon the missive. Her heart bled when she read that little Gabriel was the creation of Moleyns. Did Gillet know? Was this God’s plan, to wipe Gillet’s slate clean before his new marriage? He could raise his own heirs without fear or shame now. When she read of Catherine accompanying Simon to Denny Abbey, Cécile knew herself to be truly alone. She fell beside the cot, wrapped her arms tightly around her knees and rocked slowly. Tears welled in her eyes as a desperate longing for Larressingle filled her. ‘I will take you home to your namesake,’ she whispered to her son. It had been so long since she had seen her dear papa, Jean d’Armagnac. The babe squirmed in his sleep, grunting as he relieved the wind in his belly.

  February rolled to a close and the Mesdames received their inheritance. Frenzied work began on the manor’s renovations. Safely enclosed within her suite, Cécile ignored the bang-ing of hammers and the rasping of files coming from both above and below. She ignored the odour of paint permeating beneath her door. She sat in her chair and rocked her son from dawn’s rays until twilight’s shadows. It had been one month since she left Gillet.

  In the second week of March, Dame Rosetta insisted a physician examine Cécile.

  ‘Your womb has ceased to bleed,’ he informed her upon completion.

  Cécile stared from the casement at the newly appointed gardeners digging the rose plots. Winter had left prematurely and everyone whispered that it heralded a very long and hot summer.

  ‘Are you listening, Madame?’ The physician scowled at his despondent patient. He had heard of such cases, where after childbirth the mother could not recover her spirit. ‘Your humours are out of balance, but time will correct this. You should resume your marital duties as soon as possible, Madame. It will help.’

  Cécile glanced up with a weak smile. ‘Yes, I understand.’

  The chamber door opened and Monique, the wet-nurse, laid Jean Petit on Cécile’s bed. She quickly stripped his gown and swaddling bands and stepped back to allow the physician to examine the child.

  ‘Your son is doing well,’ approved the physician with satisfaction. Jean Petit was re-dressed and placed into Cécile’s anxiously waiting arms. She snuggled him possessively, kissing his brow as he squirmed beneath his blankets, ill-tempered at being disturbed.

  ‘He is gaining sufficient weight and your wet-nurse tells me that he settles better,’ said the physician. His officious tone softened as he placed his hand on Cécile’s shoulder. ‘You have a hale and hearty son, Madame. You have also regained your own health. From what I was told, it could have been much worse. Thank God for His mercy. You and your husband at least have an heir.’ He packed his instruments and left.

  Cécile sat in her chair by the window, nursing her son, and stared blankly at the rose bushes. ‘I do thank God for you but you cannot know the cost.’ Jean Petit squirmed, then stiffened his legs and let loose a vicious wail.

  On the sixteenth day of March the Mesdames, Margot and Cécile, along with their maids, climbed aboard the manor’s cart bound for the church. With the return of Cécile’s health, Madame Rosetta insisted on having Jean Petit christened. They had already risked the child’s soul for too long, she’d said.

  Cécile wore a new wool gown of soft blue sewn by Margot and embroidered by Dame Violetta. Both ladies had clucked with despair over the smallness of Cécile’s waistline, though Rosetta’s broths had restored fu
llness to her gaunt cheeks.

  Inside the church was stifling. Parishioners squeezed shoulder to shoulder, the suffocating odours and cloying perfumes aggravating the baby. Cécile attracted many frowns as she struggled to settle her fractious son during the sermon. At the appropriate time the priest nodded and she made her way to the baptismal font. Prayers were said and then Jean Petit was held over the blessed waters. He screamed loudly, his broken wail echoing down the aisle as the sign of the cross was pressed to his forehead.

  ‘What name do you bestow upon this infant?’

  Cécile faltered for a moment before whispering, ‘Jean de Calais.’

  The priest nodded and Jean Petit howled again, his legs thrusting out rigid, his little fists clenched. The priest whispered briefly with Cécile and she nodded. The he proclaimed to the congregation, ‘There are many Jeans of Calais,’ he said. ‘And this child yearns to be heard above all others.’ He dipped his fingers into the font and announced, ‘I anoint thee Jean Sounder of Calais, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.’ The water was poured over Jean’s brow and his blood-curdling screech carried to the four corners of the church.

  ‘Can’t wash the Devil from that one!’

  The congregation stood for hymn-singing and Jean Petit had worthy accompaniment as Cécile returned to her seat. By the time the song concluded his cries had been reduced to sleepy sobs. Cécile sighed thankfully. The Mass was drawing to a close and the priest climbed his pulpit to make his weekly announcements. His words made Cécile’s blood drain to her toes. ‘This week we have a calling of the banns. I hereby publish the banns of marriage between …’

  Jean Petit’s shriek hurtled to the rafters and all eyes turned to Cécile.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ she mumbled. Not caring how many toes she stood upon, she fled her pew. The priest scowled, his ‘harrumph’ clearly expressing the view of many as Cécile made her timely escape.