Once outside, she walked around the side of the church and sat upon a wooden bench. ‘Hush, my darling. I’m so sorry Mama pinched you! I simply could not sit there and listen as they read the banns.’ She held the child before her and whispered, ‘Do you understand? I know they must be read but please don’t ask me to listen.’ She settled Jean into the crook of her arm. ‘The law requires the reading of marriage banns for three consecutive weeks and, if not here, Jean Sounder of Calais, then somewhere, today, a priest will be calling forth the name of Ghillebert d’Albret.’ Cécile tenderly cradled her son against her breast and drew her cloak around him. His head turned and his mouth searched frantically. ‘Non, I am sorry, minikin. In this, your mother has failed you.’ Ignoring her protest, he began to suckle the cloth at her breast. ‘Oh!’ Fascinated, Cécile watched as her son nuzzled the wet patch of material with soft mewling noises. ‘Well,’ she sighed, ‘if that makes you content, I see no harm.’ She sat, crooning softly as Jean’s eyes grew heavy. As she stroked his fine hair, long enough now to twist into curls, she felt a deep warmth stirring within her breast and her sorrow rose up to choke her. ‘Forgive me, beloved, for denying you a most wonderful father in Gillet. He was not yours to have.’
The congregation began to spill from the church like ants stirred from a nest. Cécile rearranged her sleeping babe and covered her drool-wet bodice with her cloak, then went in search of Margot and the Mesdames. Their despondent expressions at her approach puzzled her.
‘Cécile, there you are. Monique’s husband has just informed us that he has found work in Amiens and she need no longer hire herself out as a wet-nurse.’
‘Oh! I suppose that is good news for them,’ replied Cécile.
‘Yes, but they leave at once,’ retorted Madame Rosetta. ‘We have no way to feed Jean Petit! And where, pray tell, does one find a wet-nurse on a Sunday?’
‘Oh, dear,’ countered Violetta, glancing at the sleeping form in Cécile’s arms. ‘How long before he is hungry, child?’ The ladies stared at one another as the implication struck home. Jean was always hungry!
Two hours later Cécile was walking the floor of her chamber, her son shrilling incessantly as she tried to calm him. Below, in the kitchen, the Mesdames, Minette and Margot worked furiously to procure the much needed equipment. Upon returning home, Veronique and Claude, the stable hand, had been swiftly dispatched, the first to scour the village for an available wet-nurse, and the latter to find a goat. These would be no easy tasks, for the church prohibited business transactions on a holy day. But Claude had found a farmer who, for the turn of a coin, was willing to risk God’s wrath. The reason soon became apparent, the goat was almost dry.
‘Plaguey farmer! May his fruit wither and die on the trees!’ spat Madame Rosetta, delivering to the kitchen what little had been acquired from the despicable creature. A disagreement erupted as to whether the milk should be boiled, lest it be contaminated by some foul contagion. No horn could be found, and the animal looked suitably repentant when all eyes turned to its head. Violetta whooped for joy when, searching through the pantry, she found a long forgotten chevrette, a small terracotta feeding bottle with a lengthy, tubular neck.
‘We’ll have to find a new nipple though,’ said Violetta sadly, as she held up the withered piece of kid leather. Jean’s screams sounded from above. Eyes glanced upwards then back to the goat’s udder and its redundant teats.
‘Tell Claude to sharpen the knives. We dine on goat tonight,’ announced Rosetta.
Alone in her chamber Cécile tried desperately to soothe her child. Rife with disappointment, she collapsed onto her bed. On her lap, Jean Petit was almost blue with his protestations. His little fists were clenched in anger and he kicked until his bands unwound.
Tears of failure pricked Cécile’s eyes. ‘Papa,’ she whispered. ‘I miss you so.’ Her grief welled and overflowed. ‘I need you so!’ She placed her finger in Jean’s mouth and he sucked madly. ‘Oh. Hell and damnation!’ She untied her laces at the back and slipped out of one side of her gown. Untying the ribbon to her chemise, she cradled her son to her exposed breast.
‘At least we shall have one moment of peace,’ she quipped. He latched on greedily and Cécile felt a tingling sensation, then a great rush of warmth. Jean Petit suckled noisily, emit-ting short, vocal grunts. Cécile stared in disbelief as the babe’s mouth slipped in his urgency, his lips wet with milk!
The door flew open and four women rushed into the room. Rosetta held up the clay bottle, its teat looking like a vulgar Pagan offering. They gawked in unison and then, as the reality dawned, jubilation exploded. In this female world it was the equal to soldiers having won a great battle.
‘Did the physician actually say you could not feed him, Cécile?’ quizzed Margot. The ladies crowded around, observing the miracle with more restraint since their overabundant joy had distressed the baby. There was a tense pause as Cécile steered her son to her other side but it proved as plentiful as the first. Jean Petit slurped happily amidst their whispered chattering.
‘Not exactly. I suppose he thought with the fever …’ Cécile ran her fingers through the baby’s downy crop. ‘It does not matter now.’
‘’Tis a miracle,’ breathed Minette, her eyes shining brilliantly.
‘Yes, it is,’ replied Cécile. Jean had taken his fill and fallen into an exhausted sleep. She lay him in his crib just as Veronique joined the hushed, excited women. The maid had not been unable to locate a wet-nurse but it no longer mattered.
Cécile watched her son and then her five companions, unable to prevent the melancholy feeling that swamped her. She stood up. ‘Would you mind watching Jean Petit? I just need a moment alone. I … I feel like a stroll in the garden to clear my head.’ She had directed her request to none in particular, but five heads nodded with eagerness.
‘Go, Cécile,’smiled Madame Rosetta. ‘Take a short walk. It is more than time you escaped these walls.’
Cécile ambled along the stone path, the newly-dug gardens already sprouting tender, green shoots just discernible in the diminishing light. The air was filled with a rich, earthy scent. She sat upon a bench and, for the first time in many weeks, looked up into the night sky to search for the evening star – the brightest one. She slid to her knees and, clasping her hands tightly to her breast, stared at the heavens above, then, with a sob, she collapsed to the ground, her nails clawing at the soil as she desperately prayed for just one more miracle.
The weeks had flown into March and Cécile’s half-written letter to her sister lay abandoned on the table. Catherine was in Cambridgeshire, so far away. A month ago Cécile had written to Armand, asking for his help to see her home. He had not replied. Feeling abandoned, Cécile’s grief was heavy as the end of the month drew closer. She leaned against the window casement, unable to stop the tears. Why had Armand not come? Alone in her misery, she did not hear Margot enter the room.
Margot peeked briefly into the cradle at the sleeping baby. ‘I have come to talk some sense into you,’ she said, settling into one of the two chairs occupying the chamber.
Cécile wiped her face and sat. ‘I was thinking about Ruby, and my cats. I was remembering the day Cinnamon gave birth to her kittens in Gil …’
Margot leapt from her chair to embrace the distraught woman. ‘Listen to me. I think it is time you stopped this nonsense. You hide in your room but you fool no-one! We know the truth, Cécile. You spoke much in your fever and we know the real reason you left Gillet. Now I must say my piece. Go to him, for surely he suffers also. We think you owe Gillet the truth.’
‘No!’ gasped Cécile. ‘I cannot. Besides, in five days Gillet will marry the King’s niece.’
‘Then let him!’ exploded Margot. ‘I know better than anyone that love is rarely part of a marriage contract.’ She sighed patiently. ‘Cécile, look at me. Do you really believe that, if you were to place yourself within his sight, Gillet could resist you?’
‘You do not understand! Gillet needs hei
rs to complete his life. He said as much when we were in Chilham.’
‘Pfft! So? Let his wife bear them!’ Her voice lowered. ‘But his heart will always be yours, Cécile, and yours alone. He will come to you for love, love from the one woman he truly adores. Gillet can still be a part of your life.’
Cécile rose to stare out of her window. ‘No. He will never forgive me for what I did to him in Calais.’
Margot came to stand behind her. Absurdly, her words were almost identical to those Arnaud had used. The syllables that differed lent an entirely altered meaning. ‘Cécile, how much do you love my brother-by-marriage? Do you love him enough to fight for him?’
Cécile trembled and gripped the splintered sill. Her heart pounded fiercely. Dare she entertain such hope? But how would she endure when, at the end of a day, Gillet would bid farewell to her and return home to his wife and the begetting of his heirs? Each time he left, she would tear open anew and bleed all the more. Now she understood why Gillet had said in Calais that, reduced to an affair of the heart, they would never be whole. Her shoulders stiffened with resolve and she turned to face her friend. ‘No, Margot. I am sorry. Such an arrangement would only destroy us both. Ghillebert d’Albret belongs to England now and I belong to France.’
By the twenty-fifth day of March spring was in the air and the prediction of an early summer looked likely to bear fruit along with the budding trees. Cécile found herself lured into the sunshine, the breeze heavy with the perfume of young, fresh blooms. At the Mesdames’ insistence she began to take regular morning walks, leaving her son in the care of any one of five eager sitters. This exercise improved her health, but she always stayed by the river, the nearby forest, and the ‘sprite’ garden within it, invoking memories too painful to bear. The closing of the week was drawing near and Cécile knew that meant a chapter of her life would end.
Jean Petit continued to grow at an alarming rate although his appetite seemed curbed every second day.
‘It can happen,’ said Dame Rosetta, dismissively, when her opinion was sought. ‘They set their own schedule. I would not worry, dear. He is not suffering.’ The elderly woman looked into the sad eyes of the younger, and sighed. ‘Cécile, sit. I have correspondence that requires delivery in England … Kent, actually. My brother had property there. The courier will be travelling through Chilham.’ Cécile caught her breath. ‘If you wish,’ continued Rosetta, ‘I mean … is there by chance another letter, a note perhaps, that you would have the courier convey?’
Cécile stared blankly for a moment then shook her head. ‘Thank you but no.’
‘Then is there any inquiry you would have him make, on my behalf, dear? Anything at all?’
‘No,’ came the reply. ‘No! Wait! There is one thing.’
Dame Rosetta’s face lit with hope. ‘Yes dear, anything.’
‘The courier need only approach the villagers in Chilham. The local merchants in the market square will know.’
‘Yes?’
‘I wish to know whether the herons returned to nest in the forest by the day of Saint Valentine.’
Rosetta’s brow lifted with bewilderment. ‘The what?’
‘It is a custom in those woods. The herons must return to nest by the day of Saint Valentine. If they do not, it is said that a terrible misfortune will befall the owner of the estate. I simply wish to know if they returned.’
Dame Rosetta shrugged with resignation. ‘Very well. I will see that he asks.’
As the gates of Denny appeared through the mist, Catherine was overwhelmed by a sense of foreboding. She held Gabriel a little tighter and leaned against her husband, drawing from his strength.
Simon alighted the carriage to ring the day-bell. They did not have long to wait. A novice pulled back the hatch and eyed them suspiciously.
‘I wish to see Lady Mary St Pol,’ declared Simon.
‘The Countess of Pembroke is not here,’ replied the girl.
‘I am her nephew, Lord Wexford. I request entrance and accommodation.’
‘One moment, M’lord.’ The novice closed the peephole and could be heard rushing away, her shoes crunching on the stones.
Simon stamped his feet against the chill. ‘Do you know her?’
‘No, but I am sure she will be reprimanded for scurrying in such an unholy fashion,’ Catherine observed.
‘Did you scurry?’ His grin stretched across his cold cheeks.
Catherine smiled and snuggled beneath her wrap. ‘Often and without discretion!’
It was some time before the girl returned.
‘You are welcome to enter, M’lord,’ she announced, opening the gate and directing them towards Lady Mary’s rooms. ‘Sister Bernadette will see you shortly.’
‘Where do you think the sword might be?’ Catherine asked, settling the baby upon a fur rug.
‘I do not know.’
‘Did you never ask your aunt?’
Simon scoffed and turned his attention to Mary’s desk. ‘Many times and on each occasion she denied all knowledge.’
Catherine sat down beside Gabby and closed her eyes. The last time she had been in this room her benefactor lay helpless in her arms, papers scattered all over the floor. The memory felt old, as though the events occurred a lifetime ago. How naive she had been. Starved and abused by a woman who thought herself close to God, Catherine accepted servitude and indignity because she had not the courage to question her circumstance. She doubted the old women would recognise the novice who had been so tormented. That girl no longer existed.
Catherine turned her attention to Simon. He was searching through numerous parchments and pushing unwanted documents aside. ‘I remember now the last time I was here, Gillet asked me if Salisbury had taken anything from this room.’
‘And had he?’ asked Simon.
Catherine shook her head. ‘No, but so much more of my past makes sense to me now.’
A portly nun breezed into the room and Simon quickly stepped away from the table. ‘Lord Wexford, I apologise, but we were not expecting your visit. Your aunt is on pil-grimage to Bath to take in the restorative waters. Her ill health continues and I believe that she is to be away for some time yet.’
Simon smiled politely and folded his arms. ‘I’m sorry to hear it. My wife, Lady Wexford, is a former novice of Denny and she was looking forward to greeting Lady Mary.’
‘I am most disappointed by her absence,’ added Catherine, moving to her husband’s side. ‘We had much to discuss.’
‘You are most welcome to stay. Several of the nuns have confirmed your status, Lord Wexford, so I am happy to offer you the use of Lady Mary’s private quarters.’
‘That is most kind,’ Catherine replied, not recognising the older woman. ‘You are newly settled at Denny?’
‘I was Abbess at Waterbeach, but your aunt closed our convent. She moved us all here.’
‘I was close to many of the sisters here at Denny. I do hope I will be permitted to visit with them?’ Catherine asked. ‘Sister Cletus, in particular, was always very kind to me.’
‘Then it is with a sad heart that I inform you of her passing. The winter has been harsh and many of our older congregation now lie within the arms of the Lord.’
‘Oh, that is … unexpected. I will pray for her soul.’
‘I did not know her well, but the sisters spoke highly of her talent,’ continued Sister Bernadette. She escorted her guests from the reception room to the adjoining suite used solely by Mary St Pol. Catherine’s eyes widened at the opulence found within. Her husband’s aunt had always insisted that her congregation be frugal to the point of destitution, yet she evidently enjoyed quite a different manner of living.
Catherine accepted Sister Bernadette’s offer of assistance and allowed Gabby to be whisked away to the kitchens, where she knew he would be smothered with attention.
‘You said that Sister Cletus was mute?’ asked Simon.
‘Yes,’ replied Catherine.
‘Then we must assume she
took her secrets to the grave.’
‘What shall we do?’
‘It will soon be Vespers,’ Simon observed. ‘And we will not have long to search. I suggest we make our way down to the cloisters now.’
‘I have given this much thought, Simon,’ Catherine began, wrapping her cloak around her shoulders. ‘I lived here for nearly seventeen years and know every twist and turn in every corridor, every loose stone and every creaking door. I cannot recall seeing a sword in all that time.’
‘Are you sure you have entered every room?’ he asked as they passed the refectory.
‘Until today I would have insisted that the answer was yes. That was until we gained entry to your aunt’s inner sanctuary. Do you think perhaps …?’
‘Yes, I had considered that the sword is hidden there.’ Simon paused and waited for several novices to pass. ‘But we can search those rooms tonight without suspicion. Our time in the communal area is limited, so that is where we must begin.’ He suddenly pulled her towards him and brushed his lips against hers.
‘Simon!’
‘No-one is looking,’ he smirked.
‘But we are in a … in a …’
‘What? A corridor?’
‘That is not what I mean and you know it!’ Catherine smiled. Her husband certainly was a daring man.
A monotonous chanting floated towards them. Mass had begun. They stepped out of the shadows and made their way along the dimly lit passageway that led to the dormitories. Simon pushed open the first door and was struck by the bare reality of religious life. A half-dozen bags of straw had been placed in a line, each covered with a thin blanket. There were no adornments, no stools nor candles. The room was freezing.
The Order of the Lily Page 33
