The Gilded Crown

by Catherine A. Wilson

  ‘What is it that you want from me?’

  ‘I need proof to reinforce my position. The Scots will never accept a foreign monarch, something David is counting on and we cannot afford another war, a conflict we would certainly lose.’ Robert scratched his chin. ‘As soon as Queen Joan dies, David will remarry. Should he produce a son, Scotland will be somewhat more secure. However, I fear that this will never occur.’

  Simon sat beside the Robert. The thick walls of the chapel were causing their conversation to echo and he hoped that by moving closer, Robert would lower his voice. The thought that they may be overheard filled Simon with fear. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘David was married at fourteen and has had numerous dalliances, some lasting as long as ten years. In all that time, no woman has ever given him a child,’ Robert whispered. ‘He has been cursed by God for the sins he has committed against his people!’

  ‘Perhaps a young wife, a maiden?’ Simon suggested.

  ‘Like your own, Wexford? I doubt David could be so fortunate and we cannot rely on an event that may never take place. When do you intend to make your way to London?’

  ‘As soon as I am able.’ Simon moved his hand to the hilt of the sword beneath his doublet. ‘I have a personal matter I need to address before we can depart.’

  ‘I wish to make a proposal.’

  Simon nodded his assent. ‘I am listening.’

  ‘I want you to return to the English court and establish what you can about the agreement between Edward and David.’

  ‘And my recompense?’ Simon asked.

  ‘I will ensure your safe departure and that of your wife and child.’

  Simon’s brows rose in disbelief. ‘A rather one-sided proposition!’

  ‘You forget, Wexford, I intend to be king and when that occurs, you will be aptly rewarded.’

  ‘So I am to choose a side?’

  ‘I am told you excel at dice.’

  Gillet de Bellegarde left his squire, Griffith, to secure their horses and made his way into the roadside alehouse on the outskirts of Bordeaux. He nodded to the serving girl and chose a table from where he could observe the flow of traffic through the noisy taproom. By the time Griffith arrived, Gillet had ordered a second round of ale along with a platter of bread and cheese.

  Like his lord, Griffith downed the first draught quickly and wiped his mouth. ‘Horses were the same,’ he enlightened. ‘Nearly drank the trough dry! Do we stay the night?’

  Gillet grimaced. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’ After sleeping most of the last three weeks beneath the stars, a good bowl of hot pottage and a clean mattress sounded like Heaven but Gillet doubted they would get either here. ‘From the looks of the patrons, this establishment prefers to rent its rooms by the hour.’ He raised his brow and glanced over to his stalwart squire, the young man’s blond hair wild from hard riding. ‘Unless some respite interests you?’

  Griffith coloured and shuffled his feet. ‘No.’ He tore a piece of bread and stuffed it into his mouth.

  As though they had been heard, a buxom wench fetched Griffith’s empty tankard and slid onto his lap with feline grace. Her fingers worked to smooth his tangled crop. ‘Big, strong man like you needs plenty of refreshment.’ Griffith’s cheeks glowed saffron as he was afforded a generous view of her cleavage. ‘There’s more where that came from,’ the girl whispered, kissing his temple. ‘Let me know what you decide, honey.’

  A smaller version with long, dark hair winked at Gillet but he held up his hand in negation and declared with a chuckle, ‘My wife would mince my vitals, fry them as sausages and make me eat them!’

  Griffith scowled and leaned across the board. ‘But ’ow would she know?’

  Gillet gulped at his ale and snorted. ‘Oh, she’d know! She’d know because I’d know. But you are free to indulge,’ he offered, ‘if you have the inclination.’ He watched the young man’s eyes glaze and could guess the picture his mind held. ‘Ha! My squire will not squander his father’s hard-earned coin. So when are you going to ask me?’

  Griffith gazed blankly at his lord’s face. ‘Pardon, Sire?’

  ‘You dolt!’ Gillet thumped the top of Griffith’s arm. ‘For Minette’s hand! When are you going to ask me?’

  The door to the inn flew open and a group of noisy men jostled through, the road sweeping in behind them in a cloud of dust. They arranged themselves at the next board and called for ale. One of them seemed a little agitated, his smooth chin amongst the bearded ones proclaiming him the fledgling.

  ‘Are you sure we should be doin’ this?’ He received a healthy shove for his pains.

  ‘Stop being a worry-monger! We’re the front scouting party and we’ve reached our destination. Our job is done.’

  ‘Almost done,’ corrected his companion. ‘We still need to reach Blanquefort before the others.’

  ‘Yeah, well the rest is coming up t’river by boat and slower than an old pope on a whore! We’ll git there first with plenty of time for an ale or two first. Drink up, men. No doubt we’ll have to help unload the bloody thing too.’

  At the mention of ‘Blanquefort,’ Gillet pulled out a piece of vellum. He and Griffith bent over it, muttering, appearing to the casual observer to be consumed in their own purpose. But their ears were tuned to the conversation at the next table.

  Half an hour later, refreshed and gulping the clean night air, Gillet and Griffith collected their horses.

  ‘What do you suppose that was all about?’ asked Griffith, mounting.

  ‘I’d say Bordeaux is preparing itself to receive the Prince of Wales,’ replied Gillet, easing onto his saddle. ‘You heard them – the constable will be given a grant of ten thousand English pounds. A boon to make sure all is in readiness for Edward’s arrival.’ He turned Inferno towards the road. ‘We must make haste if we are to complete our quest and be gone before the Prince comes. I can only hope my cousin is already here.’

  It was another hour before the group of men tumbled out of the tavern door, yelling for their mounts. They rode away undisturbed but not unobserved. From out of the shadows a cowled figure made its way into the ale house, located a table in the corner and placed an order. He didn’t have long to wait long. A burly man hovered into the trestle space opposite.

  ‘You, Moleyns?’

  The seated man raised one eyebrow. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Bonneuil.’

  ‘Ah.’ He gestured for his visitor to sit. ‘Then we are well met.’

  Bonneuil leaned back as a tavern maid delivered two tankards to the table. He eyed her plump rear appreciatively, resisting the urge to give it a healthy squeeze.

  Moleyns offered his open palm over the ale. ‘I took the liberty,’ he informed his guest.

  Both men glanced surreptitiously around the room and bent their heads over the cups. Moleyns spoke first in a lowered voice.

  ‘The Prince is arranging his passage to Bordeaux. He sends an envoy to prepare his arrival, get his father’s castle ready.’

  Bonneuil nodded.

  ‘The delivery of such home comforts are merely a facade for something far more interesting. Under the pomp and ceremony of silks and damask lies a correspondence belonging to the King – a tiny scroll of great import. I want you to find it and bring it to me.’

  Bonneuil snorted. ‘Just like that, eh? How will I know it?’

  ‘By the kings’ insignias painted in each top corner. Only this correspondence will bear them.’

  Bonneuil sat back and grimaced as though he’d caught whiff of a latrine tower.

  ‘I was assured you were the correct man.’ Moleyns squinted.

  ‘And I was told you’d pay up front,’ countered Bonneuil.

  ‘Your conscience in a hurry?’

  Bonneuil grunted his derision. ‘French, English, who cares anymore? This damn truce is ruining me.’ He grabbed his tankard and swigged. Some of it trickled into his wiry beard. He returned the vessel to the table with a thump followed by a belch. ‘Pa
yment up front.’

  ‘Half up front; you’ll receive the rest when I have the information I want.’ Moleyns slid a fat purse over and Bonneuil’s face lit up. He reached for it and Moleyn’s hand landed atop his.

  ‘I’ll give you more for one extra task.’

  Bonneuil stared at the stubby, perfectly formed fingers hampering his retrieval. ‘What task?’

  ‘I saw a man leave earlier with his squire. I want to know what he’s doing in Bordeaux.’

  ‘You have a name?’

  ‘Albret. Ghillebert d’Albret.’

  Bonneuil burst out laughing. ‘Albret?’ He rubbed his crooked nose purposefully. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

  Moleyns released his hold and withdrew more coinage. Bonneuil scooped it up fast. ‘His cousin, Arnaud-Amanieu, arrives soon to renew his fealty for the Gascon lands,’ advised Moleyns. ‘I’ll warrant Albret is not here to swap family recipes. My employer would be willing to pay highly for any knowledge of seditious suggestions.’

  ‘Trout á la treason? How do I reach you?’

  ‘Around the corner from the Bishop’s palace there is a fishmonger. Leave an order for two pike in the name of John Moleyns and tell them you will pick it up in one hour. When you return, they’ll inform you of our meeting place.’

  Bonneuil nodded. ‘And what if, in my discovery of his intentions, Albret should come off second best?’

  Moleyns studied his quarry a moment before answering. ‘If that were possible,’ he tilted his head with a leer, ‘it would be a great shame.’

  Moleyns waited until Bonneuil left before stepping outside the alehouse. He moved to the stable area and gave a low-pitched whistle. A youth appeared with two horses. They both mounted then Moleyns threw the lad a small bag of coin.

  ‘See to it we get a house behind the Bishop’s palace.’

  ‘Yes, Milord Salisbury.’ The boy rode off.

  Laughter rolled in Salisbury’s chest like a distant rumble of thunder, ominous and threatening. He scratched his groin and winced at the tenderness. Silently cursing Wexford for the discomfort of the knife wound, he set his rouncy in motion. ‘I’ll win my way back into Edward’s court yet and still have my vengeance. Albret in Bordeaux, eh? Well, the prince said I was to stay away from the girls.’ His horse’s ears pricked, attentive to the tones of his rider’s voice. ‘But he never said anything about Wexford and Albret.’ He gave a burst of glee and his horse flattened its ears.

  Cécile de Bellegarde sat, shivering, in the darkened room. She had been taken to the Hôtel-Dieu where the smell of death and decay from plague victims was so thick, she’d been afraid to breathe as the soldiers dragged her through the corridors. They’d put her in a small chamber at the far end of the building. Her hands were manacled behind her and she steeled herself as the door opened to admit four men in holy smocks, among them Father Jacques.

  ‘I demand you release me!’ ordered Cécile. ‘You have no proof of that mad woman’s accusations.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Father Jacques, calmly. ‘But I do. I have the testimony of a certain Duc.’

  ‘Duc de Berry will not approve this. I insist on speaking with him. He will withdraw his claims.’

  ‘You insist nothing. Do you think I will let you near the Duc so you can entice him with your honeyed muff? God, alone, rules here. I shall cast out the demons!’ Father Jacques shook his fist in the air. ‘I am appointed in His name to seek out all who walk the path to Hell. I shall give you back to the light, back to our Lord. Admit your heresy now and it will go easier for you.’

  ‘No,’ whispered Cécile. ‘I have done nothing against God or His church.’

  ‘Liar! By her own tongue she admits her lies! We shall purge you of your sins, wicked woman. Prepare her, Brother Phillip.’

  Cécile saw a set of shears in the large man’s hands and she gasped. The other two men – newly-appointed to the church, given their ill-fitting robes – clamped their hands upon her shoulders to hold her still. Her hair was lifted in hanks and swiftly cut. Her struggles only resulted in the points of the shears digging into her scalp and making her bleed. Terrified and unable to move as sheaves of golden waves were scattered onto the floor, she opened her mouth and screamed. Blinding light blurred her vision as she felt the full force of Father Jacque’s slap on her cheek.

  ‘Begone, Lord Satan! We shall burn the body and release the tortured soul that hides within your servant! We will give her back to God.’ He turned to leave. ‘Strip her clothing. Leave only her chemise and put her in a cell – a deep one where no one will hear her poisoned ravings.’

  Cécile crouched low against the cold stone of her cell, trying to make herself as small as possible. She wrapped her arms around her legs and slowly rocked, shivering as the cool breeze taunted her hacked scalp. The short, stumpy clumps bore little resemblance to the fine golden mane she had possessed. Why had God forsaken her in such a manner?

  She closed her eyes and tried to recite her rosary, keeping a mental picture of her fingers moving over the beads. But her mind began to race and, freed from the captivity of prayer, it ran with total disregard down the path of her childhood. She remembered the scoldings from her maman, time and again, when she’d failed in her tasks: embroidery, needlework in general, her flippant attempts to learn the lessons of running a household, being a submissive wife, counting linens and re-stocking a pantry. She’d thought it all a waste and she’d been right. But how, in this moment, she would have loved to be wrong.

  Cécile glanced around the small cave cell. Carved out of the earth’s bowels, the rancid odour fouled the air and clung with spite to the defecated rock. Housed beneath the far end of the hospice, the same tunnels which had seen Gabriel, Minette and Margot escape with Jean Petit, now incarcerated her. She was fettered by the ankle in a stinking pit. The thought of loved ones brought a stab of pain but she fought the urge to give in.

  ‘Strength, Cécile,’ she muttered to herself. ‘You were raised Armagnac.’ She lifted her chin and relaxed her shoulders. ‘And Armagnacs do not fear.’

  The sound of the door being unlocked at the end of the tunnel alerted her. Slow, dragging footsteps made their way to her cell and Rinaldo, her dim-witted gaoler, appeared with a wooden bowl.

  ‘Food,’ he barked, and slid the dish toward her with his long stick. The dish caught on the uneven surface and tipped. The gruel sloshed over the rock floor.

  ‘You fool!’ exploded Cécile. ‘Look what you’ve done. Get me another.’

  Rinaldo cocked his head and smiled leisurely. ‘Lick it up.’ He took his stick and poked her. ‘Lick it up, kitty-cat or you can go hungry.’ The pair glared at each other. ‘Suit yourself,’ he drawled, ‘but I ain’t bringing no more. Starve for all I care.’

  Cécile’s stomach grumbled and she looked at the stodgy mess pooling on the stone. She crawled across and crouched low until her lips reached the porridge. The aroma caught in her nostrils made her mouth water. She was so hungry.

  ‘Meee–oooow.’ On the other side of the bars, Rinaldo squatted in front of her. ‘Meee–ooow.’ He laughed raucously. ‘There’s a good kitty.’

  The following day Rinaldo poked her bowl through and as Cécile crept to the dish, he hooked his stick under her chemise and flicked it over her back. She gave an indignant shriek but the brief view of her fleshy, fair-skinned derrière had Rinaldo round-eyed. He swallowed uneasily. ‘Tomorrow you show me more,’ he warned. His eyes glittered. ‘I want to see what a witch’s hole looks like.’

  Cécile grabbed her bowl and shifted back against the rocks. ‘I’d rather starve,’ she snarled.

  Rinaldo shrugged his simpleton shoulders. ‘Then you shall.’

  For the next three days, Cécile had nothing to eat. The first day she stoically refused to acknowledge Rinaldo’s presence – and his demand. Disappointed, he took her dish away. The second day Cécile’s stomach protested at her stubbornness. She fought a blistering headache but she held on. By the third, she was seeing stars in fr
ont of her eyes and a low buzzing filled her ears. She knew Rinaldo meant to keep his word. He would let her starve. With no contact from the outside world, she had no idea how long they intended to keep her in the cell. Counting her keeper’s visit as once a day, a week must have already passed. She knew if she was to have any chance at survival, she had to eat.

  With an acute sense of timing that almost convinced Cécile she bore the sorcerous ability for which she was accused, she heard the creature of her thoughts coming down the tunnel. He held out a dish enticingly. A piece of meat and a collection of vegetables had Cécile salivating. She had not seen such fare for weeks.

  ‘Provisions for the town finally arrived,’ announced Rinaldo. He stretched his arm further so that the aroma caught her.

  Cécile’s mouth watered.

  ‘Lift your dress for Rinaldo.’

  Cécile stared at him, then back at the food.

  ‘I said lift your dress.’ He swayed the bowl in front of her. ‘No food until you give Rinaldo his fun.’

  Cécile swallowed heavily. ‘No.’

  Rinaldo turned and walked away.

  ‘No! Wait!’

  He stopped and turned.

  Cécile rolled her skirt over her calf.

  Rinaldo returned to his position and sneered. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, much better.’ He held up the dish and put his nose to the edge, inhaling. ‘Hmmm.’

  Cécile felt almost faint she was so famished. Gripping the hem of her gown, her knuckles white, she slowly raised it.

  ‘More.’

  ‘God have mercy,’ she croaked.

  ‘More.’

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she drew her chemise up over her knees.

  ‘Open your legs.’ Rinaldo stared his fill. ‘Wider.’ The seconds ticked by. ‘Well, look at that,’ he said, slowly sliding the dish towards her with his stick. ‘A witch’s hole looks exactly like a whore’s!’

  Dropping her skirt with a sob, Cécile pawed her way to the food. Her tormentor was still watching. Ravenous, she fell upon the bowl and stuffed the meat into her mouth. Oh, God! The sweetness! She felt a soft point of contact below her shoulder and a warm, liquid splash against her cheek; a jet of urine arched, then changed direction to fill the dish. Cécile fell back with a cry and watched, helpless, as Rinaldo pissed onto her food.