The Order of the Lily

by Catherine A. Wilson

  When I am wed.

  Rose, rose, rose, red.’

  She kept her eyes closed as tears cascaded down her cheeks. So deep was the pain that she could not breathe. Blind to the world around her, she heard the crunch of footsteps upon the stones. Someone was coming! She opened her eyes and, from behind a veil of misted tears, she saw the dark-haired figure striding along the path towards her.

  Cécile’s torment had lent itself to imagination. She laid her palm to her breast with a gasp, and her heart raced like a horse in full gallop as she watched Gillet make his way closer. He looked so handsome in his blue velvet doublet, his hair recently trimmed and his smile no longer hidden by a beard. If she were dreaming, she did not want to wake.

  Gillet stopped before Cécile and gallantly raised her gloved fingers to his lips. ‘You are more beautiful than ever and you sing with the voice of an angel, but my Lady is much too sad.’

  ‘Gillet?’ she whispered, not trusting her voice.

  ‘Hush.’ He stretched out his arm and leaned against the tree, towering over her. With his other hand he tilted her chin and his voice grew stern. ‘Do not, Mademoiselle, ever presume to tell me again what is my duty, or in which direction it lies. Do not presume to decide, on my behalf, where my fate lay. Do not ever presume that my love is not strong enough to withstand the obstacles that life will place in our way. Lady, do you understand?’ He wiped her cheeks, his tone gentling. ‘I know, Cécile, what the physician in Calais told you. I know you may never bear another child. I also know that no matter what, I love you.’

  Cécile’s chest heaved as she struggled to hold back her emotions but a strangled cry escaped.

  ‘We have each other,’ continued Gillet, ‘and we have been blessed with children. Trust in me, Cécile. I would rather have you in my life, without heirs, than not at all.’ He stepped back and bent one knee, taking Cécile’s left hand firmly in both of his.

  ‘Cécile d’Armagnac, you see before you a man who will never see you hungry or homeless, who will care for you, comfort your sorrows and ease your pain in times of suffering – a man who would fain be your husband and love you for all time. Will you accept me for the man that I am?’

  Cécile gave way to her sobbing. Gillet stood and hugged her to his chest. He gently kissed her brow and whispered hoarsely, ‘I am finally asking. Marry me, Cécile.’

  When Cécile finally raised her head, it was to realise that the morning’s antics had been deliberately devised, the bath, the elaborate dressing of her hair, and the gown. Still in a daze, she held out a fold of the rich velvet.

  ‘Yes, sweetheart,’ smiled Gillet, ‘do you recognise it?’

  ‘The dressmaker at Chilham? But the cloth was sold!’

  ‘Yes. I was the unknown buyer. You chose well. I have never seen you look more beautiful.’ His lips swooped upon hers, his kiss soft and tentative at first, then deepening with all the ardour that Cécile had despaired of ever feeling again. ‘Now come,’ he said but, noticing her gloves, he frowned. ‘Wait.’ He tugged them off and hid them inside his doublet. ‘For this ceremony they mark a plundered virtue. I will not have you declare thus openly.’

  ‘What ceremony?’

  He gave her a wide smile. ‘Why, our wedding, of course.’

  Gillet led her past the manor house and followed the path to the forest. Cécile felt as though she were sleepwalking and pinched herself just to be sure.

  ‘I hope you do not mind,’ Gillet was saying, ‘but I ran into some friends in Calais and invited them along.’ He broke through the blackthorn hedge into the faerie clearing they had visited so long ago.

  The large, flat rock beneath the aged oak was covered in a silk cloth, upon which stood a jewelled cross. Standing behind it was a priest. But these observances were fleeting for Cécile. She was whisked from her feet and twirled around, her captor laughing as he grabbed her.

  ‘Armand,’ she squealed, returning his exuberant greeting.

  ‘Did you think I would miss my cousin’s wedding, ché rie? Or yours?’ He set her down and she was besieged by Guiraud, Gabriel, and bear-hugged by Mouse.

  ‘Get off her, you great lout! You are crushing her dress.’ Gabriel elbowed his companion aside and bowed gracefully. ‘Lady, may I remind you that you still owe me a kiss?’ He shot Gillet a surreptitious glance. ‘But, mayhap, in the interest of my own health, I shall collect it another time.’

  Gillet placed his hands possessively upon Cécile’s shoulders. ‘Lay one finger on this woman without my consent and I shall be forced to kill you.’

  ‘Doesn’t need fingers,’ guffawed Mouse, delivering a hearty slap to Gabriel, ‘only lips!’

  ‘Good sirs,’ announced Gillet, laughing. ‘A little decorum, if you please. This is my wedding! Since Armand stands as my witness, I need one of you to give Cécile’s hand to the priest.’ Gillet’s companions fell silent, heads evasively bowed as toes prodded the ground.

  ‘Guiraud? You are next-in-line by blood.’ But Armand’s younger brother shook his head. Gillet’s grip tightened upon Cécile as a deep voice resonated from behind them.

  ‘Stand aside, son. I believe that honour belongs to me.’

  Cécile spun around and, with a shriek, threw herself at Comte Jean d’Armagnac, covering his face with kisses.

  ‘I hope you will save some of those for me, sister,’ laughed Jean le Bossu, appearing at his father’s side.

  ‘Jean!’ Cécile fell into her brother’s embrace. Just then Griffith stumbled through the bushes and the Mesdames, Margot and Minette, Veronique and Alfred, and Lady Matilda filed into the clearing.

  ‘I trust that our timing is perfect, Sire?’ grinned Griffith.

  Cécile released her brother and stepped towards Gillet. He gathered her hands in his, and as she stared into his dark eyes, for a brief moment, no other in the world existed for them.

  ‘I am not yet free from encumbrance, Cécile,’ he whispered, ‘but I am willing to give you my oath. Marry me.’

  She fell into his arms. ‘Yes, oh yes!’

  Everyone shuffled into position near the makeshift altar. With shock Cécile realised that the priest was Beraud, Armand and Guiraud’s brother. He was now the Bishop of Dax, and had travelled with the Comte for the occasion.

  ‘With Comte d’Armagnac’s sanction, on behalf of the French crown,’ explained Gillet, ‘plus a Bishop officiating the ceremony, there is none who may declare our marriage invalid, not even a king.’

  ‘Not unless you forget to consummate your vows!’ sung out Armand.

  Gillet smiled amidst the laughter and Cécile blushed as Armand took his place beside the groom. The two men embraced stalwartly.

  ‘Come, let us do this, cousin,’ he said, ‘or else Céci will realise she has not eaten and we shall not hear your vows over the rumbles of her stomach!’

  Comte d’Armagnac took his daughter’s hand and Cécile glanced around. She realised that, with the exception of Catherine and Simon, all the people she loved most in the world were in this clearing of woods. But behind that thought, was another and it was struggling from the dark recesses of her mind and begging to be given a voice.

  ‘We are assembled in the presence of God …’ Father Beraud began the ceremony when a terrible truth struck Cécile.

  ‘… know of any reason why these two may not lawfully be joined together, speak now, or forever hold your peace.’

  ‘No. I cannot let you do this!’

  ‘Cécile.’

  ‘No, Gillet! Hear me out. You cannot marry me.’

  Voices were raised in protest but Father Beraud held up his hand to silence them. ‘Speak, my child.’

  Cécile’s gaze locked with Gillet’s. ‘At the tree, you said “we have been blessed with children.”’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you do not know. Gabriel is not your son. Gillet, I wish in this very moment that he were and I were not standing here saying this. But the boy’s hands and feet are webbed – the same as John Mole
yns. Anaïs deceived you, and I cannot do the same.’

  A hush fell over the tiny crowd as faces were frozen in stunned dismay.

  ‘That is not possible,’ burst out Gabriel, the child’s namesake. ‘I held the babe myself!’

  ‘But did you see his hands or feet?’ insisted Cécile. ‘I’ll warrant Catherine saw that they were covered.’

  Gabriel faltered. ‘I … I do not remember.’

  Cécile turned back to Gillet. ‘It is true. Catherine hid his defects with mittens and blankets. She was afraid if Simon knew that he would return the child to Anaïs.’

  ‘He’s not my son?’ Gillet’s expression was vacuous. Numbly he stared at each horrified guest before pacing away. He halted beneath a canopy of wild blossom and raked his fingers through his hair, tilting his face skywards with eyes closed as though silently beseeching God.

  ‘No, he is not your son, Gillet,’ confirmed Cécile, stoutly. ‘Nor can I give you one.’

  Father Beraud tactfully cleared his throat. ‘This declaration absolves any commitment you made to either woman, Gillet,’ he said. ‘In God’s eyes you are wholly free, though not always is the good Lord’s plan clear to us. He tests us all in different ways.’

  There was a long, heavy silence, during which everyone held their breath. Gillet gazed at the baby in Margot’s arms. ‘And if I have no wish to be free, Father?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Then you must keep faith, my son,’ replied Beraud. ‘God is the maker of miracles.’

  Cécile watched as Gillet returned to her side. ‘Let us continue.’

  ‘Gillet, are you sure?’ insisted Cécile. ‘If you need more time …’

  Gillet smiled. ‘I have had a lifetime of wanting this. It is as Beraud says. None of us can know God’s plan.’

  There was a collective sigh followed by beaming grins.

  Armand presented the blood-red shield of Albret, upon it the endowment gifts of coin and soil representing wealth and land, offered for blessing. Jean d’Armagnac took his daughter’s hand and gave it to Beraud. In his turn, the priest placed it firmly into Gillet’s.

  ‘Ego in nomine domini eam tibi trado.’

  Gillet held a ring poised over Cécile’s thumb and recited his vow. ‘I, Ghillebert, give my body to you, Cécile, in loyal matrimony. With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee honour, with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of the Father …’ He moved the gold band over each of her fingers in turn. ‘… the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’ The ring slid down her third finger. ‘Amen.’

  With a trembling voice, Cécile repeated the vow and then Beraud boomed over his small gathering with as much passion as delivering a soul-searching sermon.

  ‘Those whom God has joined together,’ he roared, ‘let no man put asunder. God unites you.’ He bent and gave Gillet the kiss of peace.

  An explosive outburst sent the birds squawking from the treetops. Unable to contain himself any longer, Armand ‘huz-zahed’ his joy to the world. Gillet smiled and drew Cécile into his arms to kiss her proper.

  For the next ten minutes insanity reigned as well-wishers converged. Margot hugged Jean Petit so hard, he took fright and, hearing the cry of his new son, Gillet snatched him from his overwrought keeper. The baby was fascinated by this new, strange face and Cécile watched, her heart clenching, as a little arm extended from the blanket to land clumsily on Gillet’s chin. In reply, Gillet tenderly kissed the tiny palm.

  ‘To the church,’ called Jean d’Armagnac, herding everyone to the manor’s cart. ‘Let us have this marriage consecrated and the register signed!’

  The ladies scrambled aboard and Jean Petit was relinquished into Minette’s care. The men mounted their nearby horses. Cécile stepped up to the cart but was caught around the waist by her father.

  ‘From now on, your place is beside your husband,’ he admonished. Gillet pulled alongside and Jean d’Armagnac hoisted his daughter onto Inferno’s neck.

  ‘But the babe will be hungry,’ protested Cécile. ‘I could have fed him on the way to the church!’

  ‘This day belongs to Ghillebert,’ insisted Comte d’Armagnac.

  ‘Do not fret, Cécile,’ called Dame Rosetta as the wagon pulled out. ‘Jean Petit will not go hungry.’ She held up the clay feeding bottle and a loud chorus of giggling burst from the women. ‘We have been teaching him to feed from the chevrette for days now!’

  The Mass was a private ceremony held in between the usual services. The women filed into the pews on one side, the men on the other, as Gillet and Cécile took their places, kneeling at the altar. The parish priest, nervous in front of the Bishop of Dax, performed an eloquent service and obligingly stepped aside for his distinguished guest to deliver the bridal bene-diction.

  Gillet edged forward as a pall of beautiful pearl Lucchese cloth was suspended over Cécile’s head, the canopy held aloft by the four corners, as tradition required, by unmarried bearers, those being Lady Matilda, Minette, Armand and Griffith. Cécile gave her own thanks in prayer, for this ritual was permitted to a woman only once, and the church allowed those who were corrupta to receive it, the same as any maiden bride. Here, at last, in the sight of God, she was not to be punished for the loss of her innocence.

  General confession, absolution and Communion followed, a highly favoured circumstance which confirmed the marriage vows were now a holy sacrament and thus indisputable. As Bishop, Beraud granted a common license and the priest duly noted this in his church’s register.

  They journeyed back to the manor house but the countryside blurred around Cécile as she fixatedly twirled her wedding band.

  ‘Look up, Céci,’ announced Gillet, ‘if you can draw your attention from your wealth for long enough.’

  ‘I do not covet the gold!’ she choked, incensed. ‘It is the meaning behind this glorious symbol.’

  ‘Hush. You promised to obey me, remember? Cast your eyes to the Mesdames’ house and tell me if what you see pleases you.’

  The unpretentious manor had been thoroughly cleaned in the recent renovation. The roof tiles twinkled under the brilliance of the sun, the shutters had been painted and re-hung and the surrounding ivy neatly clipped. Fresh shoots were sprouting in abundance, in newly ploughed garden plots and they promised a full, colourful display by mid-summer. The tended lawns were deepening to a lush green. To Cécile, it was an Eden on Earth.

  ‘Oh,’ she breathed, her eyes round, ‘the Mesdames must have been left a small fortune to bring about such changes.’

  ‘Riches again?’ chortled Gillet. ‘So it meets with your approval?’

  ‘How could it not?’ she gasped. ‘It is superb!’

  ‘Good!’ he replied, laughing. ‘I am pleased you like it. This house now belongs to you, Lady d’Albret. Never again shall you feel as though you have no hearth to call your own.’ She turned to stare at her new husband as he pulled up his horse in the drive. ‘It was purchased with your dowry,’ he smiled. ‘I shall explain it later. Meanwhile, we have guests to attend.’

  Long tables had been set with creamy linen cloths and laced with ivy in what passed for the manor’s hall. The men noisily hoisted Gillet onto their shoulders as Armand, after a sweeping bow, presented his arm in courtly fashion to Cécile.

  ‘Lady d’Albret, might I be permitted the pleasure of escorting you to your husband?’

  Cécile curtsied in reply. ‘Lord d’Albret, the pleasure, I assure you, is mine.’

  ‘You do realise what this means, don’t you?’ grinned Armand. ‘It means you really are my cousin now.’

  They reached the dais and Armand released her. Cécile curtseyed in abeyance to her father, Jean d’Armagnac. ‘Cécile,’ uttered the Comte. He pulled his daughter into his embrace and heaved a sigh. ‘Do all fathers love their children so?’

  She looked up into the heavy, creased face that she loved so well and her heart lurched. He had aged since their time in Paris. ‘No, papa. Not all father’s love as you do. Some hardly acknowledge a daughter’
s existence.’ She hugged him hard. ‘I will always thank God for the day He gave me to you.’

  ‘Can you ever forgive me for leaving you at the palace?’

  ‘You cannot blame yourself for what happened, Papa. Besides …’ She turned in his grasp and smiled. ‘That is where I finally met Gillet.’

  Comte d’Armagnac released his daughter and grasped the arm of her new husband. ‘Son,’ he said. Cécile slid onto Gillet’s lap as Armand perched on the board beside them, his feet resting on the bench below. The Comte’s gaze ran over each of them in turn. ‘How you have all grown,’ he sighed. ‘And who would have thought it would come to this?’ A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest. ‘Although, when this young rapscallion turned up on my doorstep, asking permission for your hand, I was not overly surprised.’

  ‘You went to Larressingle?’ Cécile twisted to face Gillet, her mouth falling open.

  ‘Oh, oui, and what a journey!’ exclaimed Armand, rolling his eyes. ‘But I had to sober him first.’

  ‘We, brother,’ corrected Guiraud, arriving with a jug of ale in the company of Jean le Bossu, Mouse and Gabriel. They pulled up a bench and filled the cups. ‘ We found Gillet drowning his misery in some seedy tavern by the docks.’

  ‘The man was so drunk he could not so much as scratch his arse!’ laughed Mouse. ‘He’d been drinking for two days and was about to ride to Bordeaux to challenge the Prince when we found him! Had to gag and bind him until he saw plaguey sense. Then he told us what had happened.’

  ‘I have not drunk like that since I was a lad,’ admitted Gillet. ‘But Armand did not believe your story for one minute.’

  ‘Nope,’ said Armand, gulping his ale. ‘Not for a second!’ He grinned at his younger brother. ‘But it was Guiraud who steered us in the right direction.’

  The young man’s cheeks coloured. ‘Some women were talking in the market place. A midwife was describing a recent birthing.’ His face flooded to ruddy. ‘Normally I would pass by such conversation but there was something about this one that sounded familiar. The woman had just arrived on a boat and gone into labour on the docks. The midwife said that the difficult birth had left the new mother barren.’