The Gilded Crown

by Catherine A. Wilson

  After supper the Bellegarde contingent gathered around their campfire. Lazily strewn upon blankets, they drank cider under the sheen of a full moon. Gillet lay facing the sky, his head on Cécile’s lap and upon his chest he bounced a bone-gnawing Jean Petit. Armand relished in the attention his chest injury afforded him as Margot cut and fed him pieces of apple.

  ‘Pah!’ scoffed Mouse. ‘If he thinks to slice down men tomorrow then he should be able to cut his own fruit tonight!’

  ‘Ah, can someone be missing my sister?’ teased Gabriel.

  ‘Sure,’ growled Mouse. ‘And tell me, how am I to take a mistress with my would-be brother-by-marriage sleeping at my back? Oh, the Devil take it … and you!’ He swigged heavily from his tankard.

  ‘Here, I shall sanction you one mistress,’ chortled Gabriel, throwing him a full skin of wine. ‘I shall even allow you to sleep with her. Her name is Lady Firkin.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Mouse, sliding his tongue over the soft leather. He squeezed the fullness of the container with appreciation. ‘So plump, juicy and ripe. I shall enjoy firkin Lady Firkin!’

  The group’s laughter faded as three knights approached the camp.

  ‘Our apologies for the interruption, gentlemen. Sires de Péronne and Montdidier,’ one of them introduced, ‘and I am Picquigny. We serve the Knights of Picardie and we bring news for your ears alone.’ The men were seated and furnished with tankards of ale.

  ‘Picardie is to join with the Knights of Berri for the mêlée tomorrow,’ announced Picquigny, ‘against the union of Normandie and Flandre.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Gabriel, raising both his goblet and eyebrows in unison to Gillet. ‘I bet Rouen and Flandre welcome that news!’

  Gillet shrugged. Jean Petit had fallen asleep, cuddled in like a tiny bear cub, and unwilling to disturb him, Gillet had not bothered to sit up. ‘No more than Lannoy and Ternois welcome it for you. We have the sword arms of Orléans and Vendôme, not to mention Sully and Montargis to protect our back.’

  ‘To be sure, Milord,’ said Montdidier, ‘if they are within your reach, but we have heard of a plot that might make that difficult.’

  ‘A plot?’ asked Cécile, stiffening.

  ‘Oui,’ confirmed young Péronne, ‘against your husband, Milady.’

  Gillet heard Cécile’s swift intake of breath. ‘Do not fear, Céci,’ he assured her from his lying position. ‘Alliances are a natural part of any mêlée. I would have been more worried to not hear of a plot.’

  ‘Do you know their intentions?’ asked Mouse.

  Picquigny nodded. ‘The usual, Monsieur de Brie – divide and conquer, separate and scatter the men, isolate the leader. Word is that their sacrificial lamb is d’Arques. It would seem that the knights of Normandie wish to teach him a lesson.’

  ‘D’Arques!’ blurted Cécile. ‘That ill-mannered squire of Comte de Rouen? Why does his name blow like an ill wind?’ She glared at Armand but he buried his face in his goblet.

  A detailed discussion ensued, the young knights offering their own tactics, and with everyone agreeing upon strategies for the following day, the three men departed. Gillet grasped two hanks of his wife’s hair and reined her lips to his. ‘Gentlemen,’ he announced, neatly rolling and cradling Jean Petit in his palms. ‘We are retiring. You forget I am yet a new groom.’ Mouse snorted as Gabriel jumped up.

  ‘Here – come to Uncle Gabriel,’ said the knight, taking Jean Petit. ‘And give your parents some time alone. I shall see him to his bed.’

  The next morning the four companies of knights spilled onto the ground in a profusion of colour. At one end of the field the black, rampant lion of Flandre, its curled, red tongue flicking against the yellow silk, and the two lions, ‘passant’ of Normandie, gold against the strawberry-red banner, claws drawn and ready for battle, flapped in the breeze.

  At the other end, the arms of Picardie, three red lions, rampant, on a field of white, quartered with the Valois arms, the triple fleur-de-lys repeated on the azure banner of Berri, snapped with defiance.

  ‘Humph! A field of lions and lilies,’ commented Cécile from the stands.

  ‘We are all French,’ replied Margot, ‘but to look at their faces, you would think they meet as enemies. Pah! Little boys – all of them!’

  The herald unrolled his scroll and read the rules of forfeiture as four servants carried out two large tree-shaped carvings, one painted gold and the other silver. From each branch swung an assortment of pressed metal leaves, tied by leather thronging. Each leaf bore the name of a participating knight.

  ‘Milords and Ladies, distinguished knights, Autumn is the season upon us. The time when leaves shall fall.’ His arm struck out to the trees. ‘Leaves of valour, each bearing the name of a knight, shall fall with their yielding. When one tree has but a quarter foliage remaining, it shall be deemed barren. The remaining tree shall live to bear fruit for another summer, and thus, be proclaimed the winner.’

  A loud cheer arose, accompanied by the rattling of armour.

  ‘Knights of the realm, laissiez-les aller! In God’s name, to arms!’

  The colourful surcottes, shields and banners merged upon the field. Challenges were called and the knights started fighting, tentatively at first, then with increasing ardour as limbs were stretched and joints warmed up. Armand, Gabriel and Mouse strategically flanked Gillet, the four men working as a team, and easily driving back their competitors. The dust rose as hooves churned the soil, and a few lesser-skilled riders were soon unhorsed.

  Gillet, in combat with a knight of Flandre, looked calm as he confidently pushed his advantage until the young man exposed his right side. Gillet lunged at the open area and struck. Claiming his win, he slapped the flat edge of his sword across the knight’s gauntlets and nodded. The young man bowed his head, yielding. He called out his name along with Bellegarde’s to the herald, and retired, defeated.

  Then there was a shift in the field. A large group of knights, who had been independently fighting on the edge of the ground, broke free and rode forward as one. The ‘Ram of Rouen’ engaged Gillet, as Flandre swung to his rear. Within moments, the knights of Picardie and Berri were forced downwind, and six more from Normandie swooped on Gabriel and Mouse. Armand sung out as eight more from Flandre bore down upon them. The Normandie Knights let them through. Cécile watched, her anxiety increasing as the distance between Armand, Mouse and Gabriel widened.

  The affable pace turned serious, and another surge saw four more knights thunder down upon Gillet. Clouds of dust billowed and obscured the view.

  Armand held off Longueville, but another contender attacked his left side. Separated from his companions, he was now battling two men at once. The rest of the Normandie and Flandre knights had formed a line and the Picardie and Berri Knights trying to reach their companions, were driven back to where the field narrowed. This maneuver left Gillet and his team alone at the top end.

  Comte de Orléans blew a small horn, but the warning had come too late. Caught in a pincer-style attack, the Berri alliance was surrounded and herded like cattle, with only the outer rank able to defend, the inner riders useless as they became hemmed in by their own men.

  Gabriel, Mouse, Armand and Gillet were now helplessly stranded. Mouse resorted to his mace. He spun his horse and crashed it upon a shield, toppling his opposition, but, no sooner had he defeated one, than another took his place. Gabriel was pinned in a ‘wooded corner,’ his sword flashing as he faced three men simultaneously, the trees at his back preventing escape. Another joined the pair fighting against Armand, and Gillet was also staving off attacks in two directions, both Rouen and Flandre taking turns to hammer blows from either side.

  ‘Oh God,’ moaned Margot. ‘How long can they hold against these odds?’

  And then, as if by some hidden signal, the men fighting Gabriel, Gillet, Mouse and Armand broke free, and charged to the blockade. Sword arms dropped and the Bellegarde team drew breath. Gillet spun Inferno around and Cécile gasped at a
large red stain on his surcotte. Armand was also bleeding, his jousting wound from the previous day, splitting anew. Their respite was painfully brief as a group of fresh knights bore down upon them.

  ‘Merde!’ cried Margot, at the renewed ringing of steel. ‘Do you see what they are doing?’

  It was obvious that Gillet and his companions were to fight non-stop, as other knights swapped positions and rested between bouts.

  ‘How did this happen?’ fumed Cécile. ‘They knew of this plot!’ Gillet’s arm was streaming with blood and she watched with growing horror as he withstood the next hammering. Mouse was still flaying his morning-star, but as with Gabriel, they were unable to break free, each of them being slowly driven further apart. Comte d’Orléans was still desperately trying to shatter the line that separated his men from the Bellegarde knights.

  ‘Look.’

  Robiérre D’Arques rode into view with another knight alongside, the latter’s surcotte bearing the crest of an eagle.

  ‘What new trickery is this?’

  The men holding Gillet at bay fell back and Gillet’s arm dropped. His chest heaved. His reprieve was all too brief as both d’Arques and the knight bearing the eagle crest swooped upon him. They circled at first, taunting.

  From a distance Cécile watched as Gillet straightened in his saddle, seemingly invigorated as he recognised his foe. ‘Who is that man?’ she asked.

  Margot shook her head. ‘I have never before seen that crest but Gillet obviously knows him.’

  The man attacked and Gillet spurred Inferno. Hooves slashed as a duel ensued between the war horses. Gillet brought his sword down, the arc carving a path to his opponent’s shoulder. The ‘Eagle’ knight stumbled. D’Arques kicked his mount and, riding in circles, swirled up a cloud of dust. As Gillet defended a blow from his right, d’Arques’ sword flashed and Bellegarde slumped forward.

  ‘He has struck from behind!’ cried Margot, leaping to her feet with the crowd. ‘The dishonourable maggot!’

  With a roar, Gillet wheeled Inferno around. His raised sword crashed down on d’Arques repeatedly.

  Unable to ward off such a fury of blows, Robiérre d’Arques fell.

  The illegal strike would have seen d’Arques eliminated but unhorsing him had no doubt appeased Gillet’s sense of honour. The damage, however, had been done. Blood streamed down his thigh and he slipped in his saddle. Grabbing the pommel, Gillet wrenched himself forward just as his ‘Eagle’ opponent delivered a smashing blow.

  ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God!’ prayed Cécile. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

  Gillet held fast, and the two men re-engaged, Gillet’s shield almost buckling under the pounding. But he returned the blows in equal measure, driven by frenzy.

  The knight with the eagle crest lunged and Gillet, slipping in the blood on his saddle, lost his shield.

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ gasped Margot. But she had not calculated for the stubbornness of Gillet de Bellegarde. He dug his knees into Inferno and looped the reins over the pommel. Taking his sword in both hands, Gillet stood in his stirrups and drove a crashing blow onto his adversary’s helm. His opponent slid sideways out of his saddle.

  Cécile’s relief was short-lived. ‘Oh, by all the saints in Heaven!’ she cried. ‘What is he doing now?’

  Gillet leapt from Inferno and, foregoing the advantage of horseback, sent the steed galloping from the field. He thrust a knee heavily into the winded man’s chest and snatching the dagger from his belt, pressed it against his opponent’s throat.

  ‘Why?’ asked Margot, stunned. ‘He has already defeated him! Why force the yielding in such a manner?’

  But there were far more words traded than a yielding merited before Gillet sheathed his dagger. As he rose and turned on his heel, he saw D’Arques, upon horseback, bearing down upon him. Gillet raised his sword but he was at the end of his strength, and wobbled like a drunken reveller.

  D’Arques let out a triumphant yell that turned into a blood-curdling scream. He landed at Gillet’s feet, sliding in the muck, his helm dented by a flying cleaver. A yell was heard above all other.

  ‘Bellegarde! Bellegarde! To the arms of Bellegarde!’ A horse skidded to a halt, and Griffith leapt from his mount just as Gillet pitched forward, falling to his knees.

  Griffith assisted his master upright and unbuckled Gillet’s helm as the Picardie-Berri knights whooped past. Freed at last from the barricade, the ill-tempered knights took precious little time to brutally take the field, and the Normandie-Flandre alliance fell.

  One day later the men were celebrating their victory back at the Maison de les Fleurs. Dames Violetta and Rosetta relished the opportunity to wield both their culinary and medicinal skills, and chuckled with delight at the boys’ teasing.

  Alone in their chamber, Cécile applied the last of the ointment to Gillet’s chest wound and unrolled the binding. Although the fire burned brightly in the stone grate, there was a noticeable chill in the air.

  ‘What if she has borne fruit from your loins and you do not know it?’

  Gillet sighed huffily. ‘Who?’

  ‘The sister of Robiérre d’Arques, of course! Why else would her brother take such vengeance upon you?’

  ‘Ouch! Careful, woman, you are as heavy-handed as a blacksmith.’ Gillet turned Cécile’s chin, forcing her to look at him. ‘Now listen to me, and listen well. Robiérre d’Arques is as stupid as he is incompetent! His sister means nothing to me, nor does she bear any “fruit of my loins!”’

  ‘Well then …’ Cecile sniffed haughtily. ‘What of the other man, then? The one with the eagle crest. Why will you not tell me his name?’

  ‘Because I do not want you to worry.’

  Cécile d’Albret stopped binding and stared at her husband. ‘You feather-headed fool, Gillet d’Albret de Bellegarde! From this moment on until I am in my grave, not one day shall pass whereupon I will not worry about you, whether you tell me his name or no.’ She tied off the linen strips and snatched up her tray of medicinals.

  Gillet grabbed her wrist. ‘The man with the eagle crest was Bonneuil.’

  The blood drained from Cécile’s cheeks. Slowly, she set the tray down on the chest and sat on the bed, her voice tight. ‘Bonneuil?’ The hair on her head prickled. She could almost feel him wrenching it. Without conscious thought she rubbed at her scalp. ‘The beast you fought in our room in Calais?’ Her hand dropped and her complexion paled further. ‘But he knows you as Ghillebert d’Albret. He could have had you arrested!’

  ‘Which is why I had to silence him, but I have not forgotten how he treated you, or that I swore to kill him.’

  ‘God’s bones, Gillet! Then why did you not do it when you had the chance?’

  Gillet struggled upright against the bolster. ‘That was not my chance. I will face him when there are no tourney rules to govern us or a hundred sets of eyes to lay judgment upon something about which they know nothing.’

  ‘For the love of God, will he care about honour if the circumstance was reversed? If you wished me not to worry your dagger should have done its work!’ Cécile glared at her husband.

  ‘Now do you see why I did not want to tell you? I knew you would react this way.’ He pulled her closer and tenderly tucked a curl behind her ear. ‘You need not fear a reprisal any time soon. Bonneuil and I have an agreement. When the time is right we shall settle our differences.’

  Cécile looked at him blankly. ‘And what is to stop him from going to the authorities now?’

  ‘I extracted a solemn vow from him.’

  ‘You may have honour, Gillet de Bellegarde, but has he? Will he uphold this vow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Gillet lifted one brow. ‘If I was not, then my dagger would have done its work. Besides, there are other tasks to which I would attend first.’ He fished beneath the covers and pulled out a parchment. ‘This just arrived. How do you feel about a trip to Gisors? My summons has arrived from the Vicomtesse d’Ever
eux.’

  Craigmillar manor house was imposing, sitting atop a low hill overlooking the southern township of Edinburgh. The new wing, well under construction, was placed strategically adjacent the original building which had been a monastic house. Catherine was surprised by the number of men working on the inner ward that would connect the two structures.

  She pointed out the stonemasons to Simon. ‘They look like bees buzzing about their hive.’

  ‘And there is the Queen herself,’ he said, steering his mount into the courtyard.

  Catherine followed, resisting the urge to pull back on the reins, hesitant to end their journey.

  Simon dismounted and addressed a short, stout woman, her head covered by an austere veil and wimple. ‘Sister, it is good to see you.’

  Lady Beatrix Odistoun opened her arms and accepted her brother’s embrace, though Catherine was sure Beatrix’s smile deteriorated into something more akin to a sneer.

  ‘I must say I was shocked when I heard news of your marriage,’ she began, peering around Simon. ‘But I can see now why you did not wish to wait for the family’s approval. Your bride is beautiful.’

  ‘Many people were surprised, Beatrix, that Catherine agreed to wed me!’ jested Simon, helping his wife from her saddle.

  ‘Come now, Beatrix, let me inspect the newest member of our clan.’ Bending one knee, Walter of Odistoun lifted Catherine’s hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. ‘Welcome to Scotland, fair lady.’

  ‘Lady Catherine Wexford, my sister, Lady Beatrix,’ introduced Simon, ‘and her husband, Sir Walter of Odistoun.’

  ‘Brother to our dear King David,’ Walter qualified as he rose to greet Simon.

  ‘Half-brother,’ Beatrix muttered beneath her breath. ‘And where is Roderick?’

  ‘He will join us in the coming days.’ Simon’s gaze settled on a pile of stones awaiting a master craftsman. ‘I hope our stay will not inconvenience you,’ he added, directing the conversation away from Roderick’s absence.