‘Catherine stepped forward, said, “Do what you will
But I will be taking the man with the quill.
He wrote me such words, a powerful verse
My choice must be careful for he is my first.”
He jumped up and grabbed her, and ran to the woods
And to his contentment she sampled his goods.
‘Fiddle di, diddle dey do, fiddle di, diddle dee
They all heard her laughing under the tree.
Fiddle di, diddle dey do, fiddle di, diddle dest
The hand of my daughter for the weapon that’s best.’
Armand danced his way to Minette. With a squeak she buried her face in Griffith’s doublet. His arm folded over her protectively.
‘Minette stepped forward to the man with the sword
And said, “I will take you, if you’ll have me, milord.
Your sword is so strong, and see how it gleams
This is the weapon to fulfil all my dreams.”
He bent on one knee, “If you don’t mind
That during the action, I just might go blind!”’
The burst of raucous laughter was only outdone by the terrible wailing of the chorus.
‘Fiddle di, diddle dey do, fiddle di, diddle dee
She said, “I don’t mind, so long as it’s me.”
Fiddle di, diddle dey do, fiddle di, diddle dest
The hand of my daughter for the weapon that’s best.
‘Veronique stepped forward to the man with the cleaver
And said, “Milord, I am a believer.
I can see you handle your weapon with care.
If I should choose you, do you think we could share?”
“My lady, if you pick me, you can fondle my axe
And you’ll find out how fiercely it slices and hacks!”
‘Fiddle di, diddle dey do, fiddle di, diddle dee
No words were needed as she sat on his knee.
Fiddle di, diddle dey do, fiddle di, diddle dest
The hand of my daughter for the weapon that’s best.
‘The father sat drinking his freshly brewed mead
Contented he had only three mouths to feed.
“We cannot choose with all those weapons laid bare!”
Matilda fainted in total despair.’
Armand slowed his strumming and stepped towards Gillet and Cécile. He bowed graciously, his face serious. The laughter quietened.
‘Here my tale should end, but I think you’ll consent
There is one more couple on whom I should vent.
He is tall, dark and handsome, and she, beauty divine
And he knew from the first, saying, “She is to be mine.”
All his life he desired her, I am testament to this
But fate sought to vex him in making her his.’
His voice softened and his gaze fixed upon Cécile. The room was deathly silent.
‘But he never gave up, for he knew his heart well.
Even though she had cast him deep into Hell
He faced all the odds, like a dragon to slay
Just to hear her sweet voice call him “Gillet.”’
He turned to Gillet, plucking his lute slower.
‘And her heart is true, it will always be so
Ne’er to stray to friend or to foe.
Such is rare, so wonderful this love
It could only have come from heaven above.
So place your faith and your doubts in the Lord
This marriage is blessed and He shall reward.’
The hall was hushed. Cécile smiled tearfully as, beneath the cloth, Gillet squeezed her hand. Armand hit a clanging chord and jumped backwards, laughing.
‘When they finally stopped fighting, they managed to wed
So I say, “Delay not! Let’s plaguey put them to bed!”’
A wild roar broke forth, the maids squealing hysterically as they rushed to Cécile’s side. The moment that she had both dreaded and awaited had arrived.
Gillet furtively acknowledged the men. ‘They will not give you much head start, sweetheart,’ he advised her. ‘Armand has wound them too tight!’
Margot and Minette looped their arms through Cécile’s and whisked her to the stairs. At the first floor, Cécile charged along the hallway only to be called back.
‘No. This way!’ yelled Margot. The maids shrieked frantically. ‘Do you forget how this day began? We were moving you to another room!’
‘I’ll warrant you had no notion it was to be a bridal chamber,’ laughed Veronique. ‘Oh, hurry. I can hear them already!’
Cécile was hurled up the second flight and into a large room. She gaped in awe as they hurriedly unlaced her gown.
The huge, canopied bed was smothered in blue curtains and a goose-down coverlet, both embroidered with the gold lilies of France. It was surrounded by a sea of scattered furs and she could scarce take in the tapestries lining the walls. All she could see was a deer poised, with big, haunting eyes, before the arrow struck.
‘There is a nursery adjoining,’ panted Margot, ‘but your son will not sleep there tonight. Cécile! Pay attention. The men will be here soon!’
She was hastily stripped and sponged with rose water.
‘Here,’ said Margot, thrusting Cécile’s garters into her hands. ‘Throw these as soon as the men appear. It will distract them.’ Veronique was madly brushing out Cécile’s hair but when she heard the rowdy thumping ascending the stairs, she squealed in panic.
The squires were first, and dived to retrieve the hastily flung apparel, neatly blocking the doorway as Cécile’s cloak was quickly located. With much revelry, Armand and Gabriel burst in with Gillet hoisted upon their shoulders.
Amidst many a ribald comment, they stripped him naked, the men retreating as Lady Matilda took her position beside him. She kept her eyes on Cécile, unlike Veronique, who feasted her gaze liberally upon Gillet.
‘Oh!’ she breathed, her hand fluttering to her throat. ‘He is magnifique.’
The men shuffled aside for Comte d’Armagnac. Margot kissed Cécile warmly and withdrew. The merriment had not subsided, but most comments were now bawdily and openly directed at Gillet’s ability to fulfil his marital duty.
Jean d’Armagnac took up his position beside his daughter. He spoke in a voice that quavered with emotion. ‘I ask you now, son, in front of witnesses, to either claim or reject my daughter, for the perfections or blemishes she carries.’
‘Last chance to withdraw, Gillet!’ The high-pitched woman’s voice sounded suspiciously male.
‘Don’t do it, Albret, don’t do it!’ came another falsetto squeal.
‘Reject Armagnac’s “Princess?” He would not dare!’ This last strident, badly-concealed voice sounded like Armand.
Veronique slipped the cloak from Cécile’s shoulders and Minette held aloft her mistress’s long hair. There was a collective intake of breath. Cécile flushed hotly as she felt everyone’s eyes burning into her flesh.
‘Sacré bleu.’ came a hushed voice. ‘What idiot said “don’t do it?”’
Gillet face remained impassive, but his eyes darkened to black. ‘Take your fill, gentlemen, but know that, from this night forward, woe betide any man who deigns to stare at my wife thus. To do so, you can be assured you will have seen your last sunrise.’ His focus shifted, dropping to her breasts, and then lowered, his voice husky as he proclaimed. ‘I accept your daughter, Comte d’Armagnac, and I declare that I see only perfection.’
Lady Matilda nodded. ‘Upon my niece, I have witnessed the same, merely a small scar exists below her lower left rib.’
Gillet’s eyes rose, still following the contours of Cécile’s body when a sudden commotion erupted from the doorway.
‘Well done, Albret! I am glad to see you could finally rise to the occasion,’ hooted Mouse.
‘Oh! Mon Dieu,’ gasped Veronique.
‘We have our proof that this marriage will be successfully consummated,’ announced Je
an d’Armagnac. ‘See them onto the sheets, and touching. Father, administer the final blessing and then let us leave them be.’
‘God’s nails,’ cursed Mouse. ‘Would that I were a painter. Those two are as beautiful as Gods from Olympus!’
‘Oh, Dieu,’ cried Gabriel. ‘Find me a woman, any woman, quick!’
The door closed against the receding noise and, for the first time since Gillet’s arrival that morning, Cécile found herself alone with him. She breathed deeply, the smell of the fresh linen unable to mask the masculine scent of the man beside her. Slowly she ran her hand over his waist and down one leg and was alarmed when he suddenly grasped her fingers to still them.
‘Touch me now, Lady, and I will be undone.’
Cécile smiled and boldly moved his hand to the warmth between her thighs. ‘Then be undone, for I have no wish to wait. I would become your wife,’ she whispered.
Groaning, Gillet rolled over and the lovers became lost into a world that now lawfully belonged to them.
The small fire in the grate, lit to heat the cold stone walls, crackled cheerfully as the newlyweds drank wine in the aftermath of their love. Gillet smiled and settled Cécile into his arms. ‘I will tell you a secret, wife,’ he murmured. He kissed her neck. ‘For many long years I wondered what became of the little girl with the golden mane. The day Catherine handed me your letter and I read that your betrothal had been broken, I knew you were meant to be mine.’
‘I would not have thought it,’ replied Cécile, her tongue trailing leisurely down his throat. ‘We fought like a pair of lions on my escape from Paris.’
‘You were the one constantly trying to scratch my face!’ laughed Gillet. He cupped her breast and kneaded it softly.
‘You are my lion,’ groaned Cécile, arching. ‘Strong, fierce and protective.’
‘And you are my lily, the sweetest of all French flowers,’ he replied, throwing back the coverlet. He put down his goblet. ‘My shining star and my destiny.’
‘Destiny?’ Cécile gasped as her husband’s lips replaced his hand. ‘And what awaits us, milord?’ She dropped her empty goblet to the covers and buried her hands in his hair. ‘You are still hunted on French soil and damned on English.’
‘Hush, my love. There is always hope.’
‘Hope?’ Cécile moaned as Gillet’s lips moved over her throat.
‘Yes. I await a summons from the Comtesse d’Evreux,’ he informed her between kisses.
‘Who?’ Cécile arched again as Gillet reached her other side.
‘Blanche d’Evreux, the Vicomtesse de Gisors.’ Gillet raised his head to stare at Cécile. His eyes were dark with desire. ‘Daughter to the King of Navarre, second wife to our dear, departed King Philippe.’
Cécile’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘The Dowager Queen of France wants to see you?’ ‘Whatever for?’ She shifted on the mattress as her husband hovered temptingly above her.
‘She has a task for me. But hush. For now, I have only one task,’ breathed Gillet, lowering himself. ‘And that is for my wife.’ His lips crushed onto hers and together they lost themselves to both past and future.
To be continued in:
Lions and Lilies – Book Three – The Gilded Crown
‘You have my men surrounded and yet you hesitate,’ observed the English monarch. ‘Strike now and victory is yours.’
‘There is no rush,’ replied the Scottish King. ‘I like to weigh my choices carefully, prior to making my final move.’
‘That would explain your lack of success on the battlefield. Death waits for no man, not even a sovereign.’
David laughed. His gaoler certainly enjoyed baiting him, perhaps more so than playing their regular game of draughts. His hand hovered indecisively before he selected a counter and jumped two pieces.
Edward raised his eyes to Heaven. ‘Once again you have ignored the more aggressive strategy and taken the safer option, giving me the opportunity to capture all your markers!’
‘I surrender, I am beaten,’ announced the Scotsman as he began to reset the board.
Edward stayed his hand. ‘We have more pressing matters to discuss.’
David Bruce rose from his seat to collect the jug of wine left by the retreating chamberlain. ‘I’ll no be givin’ her up. Regardless of what your sister might say, I’ll no be givin’ her up!’ He glanced to the corner of the room where the tussled bed linen was a tacit reminder of the afternoon he’d spent in the arms of his mistress. So hurried was her departure that she failed to retrieve her cloak, haphazardly discarded on the flagstone floor. David smiled warmly. He counted himself very fortunate for though a prisoner, his surroundings were sumptuous. He was granted numerous liberties and attracted enormous respect but, most surprisingly, in his thirty-first year he believed he had finally fallen in love.
‘I don’t give a fig about Katherine, or any of your dalliances for that matter. But Joan is my sister and I am tired of her lamenting and weeping.’ Edward III was stern.
‘My wife has not entertained my company for nigh on three years, and though I may be incarcerated, I am still Scotland’s King!’
‘Yes, but you remain under my roof.’ Edward smirked. ‘And how long has it been? Ten years?’
‘Perhaps you should have taken my head.’
‘But we are friends, are we not?’
David shrugged. ‘Will you ever relent and allow me to return home?’
‘One hundred thousand marks, twenty-five noble hostages and your oath of allegiance. That’s all I ask.’
‘As I have said many, many times – I haven’t the coin.’
‘Instruct your Stewart nephew to raise the taxes.’
‘Ha! Robert wouldna’ raise his kilt to piss on my feet!’ David refilled Edward’s goblet then sat opposite him. He studied the tablier and grimaced. If just once he could retire the winner. ‘I dinna suppose you would accept twenty-five marks and one hundred thousand disloyal noblemen?’ he joked.
Edward scratched his chin as though considering David’s offer. ‘One hundred thousand noblemen you say? Would that not include most of Scotland’s titled families?’
‘I would think so,’ replied David. ‘’Tis only the peasants who wish to see the return of their monarch. Robert Stewart and his followers enjoy unbridled patronage in my absence. My release would not suit them.’
‘But it would allow you the sweet taste of revenge?’
‘I have nothing with which to broker an agreement,’ winced David.
‘I disagree.’ Edward stroked his beard, then lent against the table. ‘You have something I have long wished to acquire.’ He withdrew a large parchment from his doublet, opened the document over the draughts board, and turned it for David to view. A scribe had taken his time, so neat was the script, and he’d included a magnificent depiction of both David and Edward’s insignia in the top left and right corners.
David sucked in his breath and let it out in a slow whistle as he read. ‘If I were to entertain your suggestion I would never again be able to set foot in my homeland,’ he murmured. He glanced up at his adversary. ‘I may be many things, Edward, but I am no traitor.’
‘Your wife is planning to leave London, removing any chance you have to produce an heir. Your countrymen jest behind your back and have deliberately ignored the many opportunities I offered them to secure your release.’
‘They will hang me!’
‘Robert the Bruce would have signed it.’
‘That’s a lie!’
‘Is it? He would have dribbled ink on anything placed in front of him if it meant he could reclaim his throne.’
‘My father did not always take the time required to think things through.’
Edward snatched up a fistful of David’s discarded playing pieces. ‘And one day your hesitation will cost you your life.’
The two men stared at each other for several long moments.
‘You bastard!’
‘You cannot rule your country from my dungeon,
’ stated Edward.
David considered his options. ‘I want your word that this will never reach the ears of my clansmen. Time enough for them to know when I am dead.’
‘I offer you my oath.’
David picked up the quill and scrawled his name across the bottom of the parchment. For once he would be the victor.
April, 1361
Arras, France
Resplendent in his armorial surcotte Gillet de Bellegarde stood upon the tourney field at Arras and folded his arms. His weight rested nonchalantly on one leg, his manner cool and confident as he laughed with his friend, Gabriel de Beaumont de l’Oise.
Tethered beside them, swathed in a matching azure, fringed caparison blazoned with a large silver bell, was Gillet’s horse, Inferno. The tar-black stallion lifted his head and drew back his top lip to expose his teeth as he sniffed the air.
Admiring glances from female passers-by were directed in abundance at the two knights and when Armand-Amanieu d’Albret joined them, his blood-red tunic eye-catching for the lack of heraldic device, one may have thought the sons of Nar-cissus had gathered for a briefing before being let loose on a village of virgins. The women began to loiter in the hopes of being noticed, the bolder ones even daring to pat the steed. But, unlike the son of the Greek river God, whose vanity had been his downfall, these men were unaware of the many sighing gazes intended for them. It was the two outrageous looking men, striding across the grass in their direction, who captivated their attention.
In 1360, Edward of Woodstock would have been thought of as the next king, Edward IV, but since he did not outlive his father, Edward III (and history later saw an Edward IV take the crown), he became known as ‘the Black Prince’ – a title we loved and chose to use anachronistically.
There seems to be a difference of opinion between well-known academics as to whether or not women could read and write in the middle to late Middle Ages. Also whether the availability of parchment for letters was plentiful or could be afforded. It is best summed up by another researcher who declared, ‘It may be taken as axiomatic that any statement of fact about the Middle Ages may (and probably will) be met by a statement of the opposite or a different version.’ Certainly this has been our experience.
The Order of the Lily Page 37
