The Gilded Crown

by Catherine A. Wilson

  The Comte of Flandre yelled, ‘Enjoy your last ride on that horse, Bellegarde. Tomorrow will see him farting in my stable!’

  Cécile burned. She clenched her fist and watched as Gillet rode slowly back to his end of the field, his shoulders drooping. He seemed so defeated. The crowd enthusiastically hailed the Comte de Flandre. A toecap nudged Cécile less than gently.

  ‘I was going to say that he could ring my bell anytime, but the only bell he should be ringing is a leper’s. Even then, a leper could hold onto his parts better!’

  Amidst the squeals of amusement Cécile spun around, tears springing at the cruel jest but Margot stilled her.

  ‘They are not worth it.’ She glared over her shoulder at the women disdainfully. ‘What would they know of decent men?’

  A breezy voice retorted, ‘I hope his lance has better direction under the sheets. Mayhap he should take lessons from his squire.’

  ‘Mayhap he already does!’ Another wild squeal went up.

  ‘Madame, pay them no attention, I pray you,’ Cécile’s neighbour sympathised. ‘Though, I must say that I have never seen Monsieur de Bellegarde joust so poorly.’ He was frowning, probing the field with a scholar’s intelligence, but then he lifted his head, beaming as though he had just discovered the Holy Grail. ‘Mais oui!But of course!’ He slapped his forehead. ‘Your husband has never given such a poor sampling. Ever.’

  If this comment was intended to provide some comfort, Cécile found it sadly lacking. The man chuckled, his eyes lighting with smug anticipation. He watched Gillet ready himself for the third and final pass. He nodded towards the riders. ‘The Comte de Flandre is a most diligent jouster but your husband, Madame, has just played him for the conceited fool he is.’

  On the field, Griffith passed the lance and Gillet flashed him a grin before snapping down his visor. The flag fell, and Inferno reared into the air, snorting as fiercely as any worthy warhorse. Gillet’s balance was perfect. The riders thundered down the pass, clods of torn earth spewing in their wake, Inferno’s snorts in cadence with his hooves. Gillet leaned into his mantle and expertly cradled the lance; his head bent, his body poised, his arm steadied. On the far side, the Comte de Flandre’s start was insipid; he was running the list with an almost casual air of indifference. It was then Cécile understood her neighbour’s comment. Gillet had duped Flandre!

  As though he could hear Cécile’s thoughts, the Comte realised his error and tried to alter his position. He struggled. The Bellegarde knight lowered his shield and brought his lance down with timely precision. There was a resounding crash as the two jousters collided. The crowd shot upright with a bellow. The bulky Comte was thrown, his feet flying over his head as his lance speared the clouds like a shaft of straw escaping a pitchfork. He landed heavily, a huge boulder avalanching over the tufts of grass, while his destrier, confused by the slipped saddle girthing its belly, bucked furiously.

  Cécile’s neighbour was beside himself. ‘Hola! I would love to see Flandre’s face when it stops ploughing the furrows.’ He sat down with a chortle. ‘His complacency, Madame, has taught him a valuable reminder, and earned your husband the Comte’s horse and armour.’

  ‘Are my husband’s method’s not a little unscrupulous?’

  ‘Heavens, no! The first lesson taught is to never underestimate your opponent, though I must say your husband took a risk. He left himself with but one pass, his only option to entirely unseat his quarry. That, Madame,’ he declared with bravado, ‘takes great skill and courage.’

  The pinching beneath her bodice reminded Cécile that back in their tent her son would be wailing his hunger. As the field was cleared of Flandre’s debris, she and Margot took their leave. After farewelling her new companion, she turned to the row of harpies behind.

  ‘Ladies,’ she acquiesced, ‘you are as crude as you are witless. I never once doubted my husband’s abilities or skill. Be assured his “parts” will never require services from the likes of you!’ With her nose primly stuck in the air, Cécile marched away from the open-mouthed putains. Beside her, Margot stifled her splutter.

  From inside her pavilion, Cécile listened to the crowing of Orléans’ roosters as Jean Petit suckled at her breast. Through the breach in the front flap, she watched as Armand slapped a beaming Griffith between the shoulder blades.

  ‘When you dropped the lance I thought I was going to rust my armour,’ he choked.

  ‘Oui. Have you ever seen such an inept display of squiring?’ bellowed Mouse. ‘Or horsemanship? When Gillet threw down his lance, I swear I could hear Flandre laughing behind his helm. Conceited bastard!’

  ‘Oui,’ chortled Gabriel, wiping his eyes, ‘but I bet he is not laughing now. Where is Gillet, anyway?’

  Cécile was wondering the same thing herself.

  ‘He ran across an old friend in the crowd. He said—’

  Jean Petit’s wail drowned out Armand’s words. The babe’s face screwed, and he screamed, thrusting a fist into his mouth. When ten minutes later he was still performing, having drunk very little, Cécile stepped from the canvas to breathe sanity. The men were in deep discussion, sprawled around a stump which served as a table for a chessboard. Upon it two armies seemed hopelessly entangled, straggled in peculiar positions, though no pieces had been surrendered.

  Armand smiled at Cécile’s approach then grimaced as Jean Petit let fly another howl. He jumped up and held out his arms. ‘Would you have me take him for a while? You look a little worn.’

  ‘He refuses to settle,’ complained Cécile, ‘I think he is teething.’ She nodded at the board. ‘What do you play?’

  ‘Warfare,’ answered Armand. ‘We are planning our strategies for tomorrow’s mêlée.’

  Smiling to the others, Cécile noted Gillet’s absence and the lengthening of the shadows. ‘Is Gillet not back yet?’

  ‘No, but I would not be overly concerned, sweetheart. He has probably been waylaid at every campfire, with many congratulatory tankards.’

  ‘Then I think I will take Jean Petit for a walk. The cool air might ease his discomfort.’

  She left the men to their scheming and, with Margot supervising the evening meal, Cécile jiggled and danced Jean Petit to a nearby grove of trees. Thinking herself alone, she jumped when a woman stepped out from behind a bush. Her hair was hidden beneath a snow-white coif and her tailored gown of expensive blue brocade hung slackly on her shoulders. She struck out long fingers to capture the baby’s chin, the dirty, broken nails at odds with the rest of her appearance.

  ‘What a fine child,’ she purred. ‘A boy?’

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Cécile, swinging him away from her avaricious reach. ‘Your pardon, Jean is overset today; teething troubles.’

  ‘Oil of cloves,’ she replied. ‘Rub it into his gums.’ The twitch of the woman’s lips revealed tidy teeth, though grimy from ill care. Dark circles smudged the skin above her gaunt cheeks but her green eyes sparkled like gems. If not for her emaciation, she may have come close to beautiful. The flawless bone structure of her face would excite a sculptor but her colour was high, suggesting an ailment of some kind. Her gaze fell upon the chain around Cécile’s neck and, with a gasp, she struck out again. Before Cécile could move, her silver medal was nestled in the woman’s palm and she was studying it as though it were an insect in amber.

  ‘What an unusual medallion,’ she murmured.

  ‘It is Saint Gilles,’ explained Cécile, feeling uneasy. She wondered if the woman meant to tear it loose. The silver could buy food for a month and, hampered as Cécile was, with a babe in arms, she would hardly be able to give chase. ‘It was a gift from my husband. He is close by,’ she added, hoping her sentiment would be understood.

  Sparks of fire raced through the emerald eyes, and the woman dropped the medal as though the heavenly protector of darkness had just set a candle to burn beneath her fingers. ‘Husband?’ Her expression turned demonic. She bared her teeth, hissing, and curled her fingers as though she meant to claw C�
�cile’s face.

  ‘Mademoiselle!’

  An elderly man pushed through the nearby brambles. He scowled at the woman and his gloved hand neatly caught her arm. ‘Calm yourself, my dear. You know you are not supposed to be out on your own.’ His tone became apologetic. ‘Forgive the intrusion, Milady. My, er, niece has taken it upon herself to wander when she should not.’ He turned the woman’s cheek so that she looked at him. ‘Come, Adèle. Do not bother this good lady.’

  ‘She was not bothering me,’ offered Cécile, feeling sorry for her.

  Without warning, the woman threw her head back and began to laugh, a harsh, cackling sound. ‘She called her son John!’

  The man bowed to Cécile. ‘Forgive my ward. She has recently recovered from a grave illness and it has left her out of sorts. Come now, Adèle. You need your rest.’

  ‘But what of my John?’ Her look became vacant. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘You know where he is,’ her uncle said, spacing his words. ‘Try to remember why. Come.’

  At a loss to answer such a pitiful display, Cécile felt relieved when she heard her own name called out loud. Griffith was looking for her. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said to them, anxious to be away. ‘May God grant your niece a complete recovery.’

  Griffith’s voice rang out louder. ‘Lady de Bellegarde.’

  Adèle’s eyes popped and she stiffened, her arms ram-rod straight and her hands curling into fists, her complexion turning blue as she held her breath.

  ‘Monsieur,’ cried Cécile, alarmed. ‘Is she not well?’

  ‘An apoplexy. Go, quickly, Madame! I implore you.’

  Adèle’s growl sounded like a hound from Hell. She sprung, claws slashing, but was neatly captured and held down by her uncle, though it cost him dearly – bruised ankles and torn skin as she wildly kicked and bit in a savage outburst of rage.

  Cécile sped across the furrows, offering thanks to whichever saint had seen fit to deliver her at such a moment.

  After supper Cécile sought the solace of her bed, feeling as malcontent as her son. Gillet still had not shown. She grunted into her pillow. If the victorious knave thought to throw a drunken leg over her tonight, he could think again! A hooting chorus from outside belied the appearance of her husband. Cécile peeked through the tent flap and watched as Gillet drew Armand aside and they entered into a private discussion. He did not look happily intoxicated. In fact, he appeared quite the opposite.

  Fifteen minutes later Gillet strode into the tent, and knotting the ties, spun around to glare at Cécile.

  ‘God’s Holy Rood! I have just been informed you walked alone before supper. And what in Heaven’s name did you think you were doing this morning? Did I not tell you to have a care when picking your seat upon the stand?’

  Peeved over his long absence, Cécile was ripe for quarrelling. ‘By the Pope’s intestines! It is hard to judge one’s character, when no one is sitting there! The merchant you sent fleeing sat after we did. Why? Does he own skirts that you have raised? Where the devil have you been all evening?’

  Gillet stepped to the small table and poured a goblet of wine, draining it at a gulp. He set the cup down with a decisive thump. ‘De Loudeac is a scoundrel and a lecher!’

  ‘De Loudeac?’

  ‘Yes. De Loudeac. His reputation is as coloured and as widely known as his brocade!’

  ‘Well, pardon me. ’Tis not as wide as you seem to think. I have never met him in Larressingle, and the Royal Palais had its own merchants for silk and weave. Perhaps his name is recorded somewhere for me to find? The cloth merchant’s guild, maybe? I go there every second Tuesday around noon.’

  ‘Curb your tongue, woman! My head pounds enough as it is.’

  ‘Pray be that is all of yours that has been pounding tonight.’

  Gillet ignored her barb. ‘The man’s scandalous reputation precedes him. He preys on the weak – namely gullible women. He has been arrested several times for petty theft and indecent fondling, but witnesses declare it is impossible.’

  Cécile blushed as she recalled Margot’s observation of a stuffed glove sewn to the fleeing merchant’s kneecap and her own breast being ruthlessly squeezed. ‘No, not impossible,’ she murmured. Hidden by his cloak, the merchant’s flesh counterpart had been free to rove, and squashed together in the stands, the distance between them had been negligible.

  Gillet’s eyes narrowed at his wife’s rosy cheeks. ‘If I thought he had laid a hand upon you, I would run him through.’

  ‘Merde,’ snapped Cécile. ‘Just what we need – another noose around your neck!’

  The black gaze stared down her resistance. His voice was low and malevolent ‘Lady, tell me true that he did not touch you.’

  Not wishing to admit her gullibility, Cécile instead recalled a well-learned lesson. Gillet had once educated her on the importance of placing emphasis upon words and having people hear only what you wished them to hear. She met his angry stare and declared, straight-faced. ‘Milord, I tell you true, the man did not lay a solitary finger upon me.’

  Gillet exhaled slowly. ‘Just as well.’

  ‘Now, I ask you,’ said Cécile. ‘Where have you been all evening?’

  Gillet unbuckled his belt and threw it into a corner before reefing his surcotte over his head.

  ‘Does your ill temper have something to do with this d’Arques?’ insisted Cécile.

  Gillet’s fingers stilled upon the knots of his padded jupon but he did not look up. ‘Why would you ask that?’ Abandoning the stubborn fasteners, he attempted the tangled laces of his chausse. Usually, if his squire was absent, Cécile would assist her husband with such tasks but tonight she no move to help.

  ‘Do you know him?’ she persisted.

  ‘No. I know his sister. Will that suffice?’

  Cécile’s heart flew against her ribs and she gazed at her husband anew. Would stray kisses and caresses leave marks upon the skin? It was said an astute wife would always know.

  A flush rose in his cheeks under her inspection and, surly, Gillet snatched his dagger and slit the laces. ‘It is not what you think.’

  Her tone was cold. ‘Is it not?’

  ‘Merde.’

  It was the only feminine quality that Gillet de Bellegarde possessed – his ability to blush like a young maiden.

  Beneath her breast, Cécile’s heart pounded. ‘Where have you been all this time, Gillet?’

  ‘You are being ridiculous, Cécile.’

  ‘Am I? What bothers you more? The fact that some strange man may have laid a hand on me, or your guilt from spending the evening laying your hands elsewhere?’ Cécile drew a breath knowing she was about to overstep her boundaries. ‘Have you ever lain with this sister of d’Arques?’ she whispered.

  Gillet’s head jerked. ‘God’s sake, woman. I refuse to dignify that with an answer.’ He didn’t have to – his cheeks did it for him. ‘Cécile? What are you doing?’

  Clutching a blanket against her breast, Cécile sailed past. ‘I am going to sleep in the women’s tent.

  Cécile threw her blanket into the corner and blinked back tears as Minette and Margot stared wide-eyed. Veronique was blissfully snoring. ‘I thought I should sleep closer to Jean Petit, just in case he needs me,’ she offered.

  ‘He’s teething, Cécile, not ill,’ stated Margot.

  ‘Well, Gillet’s snoring is keeping me awake.’

  A large shadow loomed over the front flap.

  ‘Do you not need to be asleep in order to snore?’ observed Margot, poking Veronique until she rolled.

  Gillet swooped through the opening like a wraith rider from Hell, his black cloak lending respectability to his braies. He bowed to the women, his countenance stony-faced and grim as his fingers manacled Cécile’s wrist. ‘Excuse me, ladies. I believe this belongs in my tent.’

  An hour later, Cécile smiled up at her husband. By the light of the glowing moon she saw his answering grin. ‘If making up after an argument is always to be like thi
s, I think we shall argue more.’

  ‘We argue enough as it is! Do you honestly think I would dare to lie in the arms of another? Or more to the matter that I would want to?’ whispered Gillet, pulling her close. The familiar tears welled in Cécile’s eyes and he kissed them away. ‘Put aside such thoughts. We have our son. If he is all God wills us, then I am content so long as I have you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Her concern was genuine but it would take time for both of them to accept the harsh reality.

  On the night before Cécile’s father, Jean d’Armagnac, had taken his leave from the wedding, the entourage of Maison des Fleurs had gathered around the table to argue the best course for the future. Out of this discussion there arose a united, solemn oath, binding family and servants alike. The world would know Jean Petit as Gillet’s son and Edward of Woodstock, the Prince of Wales, would not learn of his illegitimate child until the time was deemed right. Gillet steadfastly refused to give the heir-apparent any excuse to recall his wife to the royal bedchamber. They all agreed.

  Cécile snuggled into her husband and sighed sleepily. Every night she still offered up prayers that Gillet would become a father by her womb. So far her plea remained unanswered but she would never give up hope.