The Gilded Crown

by Catherine A. Wilson

  ‘That meal was more than you deserved, bitch,’ he said, adjusting his linens. ‘Next time you’ll do what I say.’ He retreated, his cruel laugher following him down the tunnel.

  Cécile gaped at the vegetables floating in a yellow puddle, then collapsed to the floor and wept without restraint. When the weeping finished, she dragged herself to her corner and curling up, stared ahead, not blinking, her eyes vacuous.

  ‘Merciful God! How much longer must we wait? It’s been days since they called an end to the plague.’ Armand thumped his fist to the table, making its pottery occupants jump. ‘She must be half-crazed with fear by now.’

  Reynaud pressed his hand to Armand’s shoulder. ‘Easy, friend. At least we managed to get some food smuggled into her. The guard promised its delivery.’

  ‘And how long since any of them saw a freshly baked loaf? I’ll warrant most of the basket doesn’t make it to her. She’ll need her strength if we are to succeed.’

  Reynaud glanced at his companion, murmuring, ‘We’ll need more than that. We’ll need a bloody miracle.’ He looked through the cottage window to where a handful of men were working to construct a pyre in the village square.

  Armand’s plan was simple – maybe too simple, but what choice did they have? The hospice was well-guarded and the distance the prisoner would walk to the stake was minimal, making any kind of rescue en route impossible. Their only hope lie in distraction at precisely the right moment.

  ‘Are you sure of the time?’

  ‘Yes,’ responded Reynaud. ‘Tomorrow is Corpus Christi and Father Jacques plans to lead his procession through the streets until he reaches the town centre at midday. Then he will offer blood and body on his fire in honour of the feast of the Holy Eucharist.’

  ‘Hasn’t he burned enough flesh of late?’ Armand turned away, unable to stomach looking at the pyre any longer. Their plan had to work. It simply could not afford to fail. ‘Do Adèle and her brother know their parts?’

  ‘Yes.’ Reynaud kept his patience for he understood his friend’s anxiety. ‘They will appear in the crowd as a married couple, determined to offer thanks for their deliverance from the plague. Just as they begin to light the fire, Adèle will create a distraction, beginning with an ear-piercing scream. That’s the signal for me to send a burning cart down the hill towards them and create more confusion.’

  ‘Right,’ agreed Armand. ‘Please convey my thanks to Adèle and her brother. I doubt we could do this without them.’

  ‘Humph!’ snorted Reynaud. ‘Convey it yourself when we are done. As for me, since Adèle found her sibling, she has avoided my company.’

  Armand slapped Reynaud’s shoulder. ‘Then, this too, we shall rectify. I promise. So,’ he continued reciting his quest, ‘when the mob is distracted, I will climb the back of the woodpile and cut Cécile free. The horses will be in position and we shall have only minutes to make our escape. You will meet me at the top of the hill and after the dust has settled, Adèle and her brother will slip away and join us in Le Goulet. You are sure the town gates have been reopened?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He stopped pacing and stared earnestly at Reynaud. ‘Have I forgotten anything, anything at all? Because this has to work.’

  Gillet and Griffith held their horses in check and watched from the cover of thick bushes as the barge on the Gironde estuary was unloaded. The golden lions of England blazed the presence of an emissary but neither man witnessed the Black Prince stepping ashore.

  ‘It would seem Edward did not come,’ mumbled Gillet.

  Griffith shaded his eyes and looked over the landscape, the fresh greens and golds of an early summer saturating the countryside. He stared at the stone fortification on the next rise.

  ‘Blanquefort,’ offered Gillet. ‘One of King Edward’s residences, probably gifted to his son for his move to Aquitaine.’ He pointed to the opposite shoreline, across the large estuary where the flow and ebb of the Gironde merged with the sea. ‘Lormont is situated just beyond that stretch. The prince’s sister was en route to Castile for marriage when she broke her journey there at her father’s castle. It was during the last outbreak of plague and she had not the foresight to move out of its path. It took her, along with all her retainers and, in order to curtail the spread, the mayor ordered the castle burned with all the bodies still inside. I had not long been in the service of Richard FitzAlan, Earl of Arundel, when it happened and the King’s anger was immeasurable.’ Both men crossed themselves. ‘Plague makes no distinction between rich and poor, English or French, father or son.’

  Griffith turned back to stare at the white castle on their bank. ‘Will your cousin come to Blanquefort?’

  ‘Probably, but I’m guessing Chandos will accept the oaths of fealty at the Bishop’s palace.’

  ‘Chandos?’

  Gillet’s lips twitched in memory. ‘Sir John Chandos, one of Edward’s knights. He is here as Edward’s hand.’ His weary sigh carried on the sultry air. ‘You know just because men fight on opposing sides does not necessarily make them bad.’

  Somewhere in the distance a church bell chimed. It was a reminder of other obligations and Gillet nudged Inferno into motion. ‘Come, we ride back to Bordeaux for the noon service. ’Twould not do to miss the feast of Corpus Christi.’

  ? ?

  The crowd gathered for the Mass, piling into the cathedral of St André, its western side situated hard up against the city wall. One man halted in his steps to stare up at the magnificent rose window, reputedly the most beautiful in France. Unimpressed, his attention was easily diverted to a young lad pulling at his doublet. He held out a grubby hand.

  ‘Alms for the poor on Corpus Crispy,’ he lisped.

  ‘Out of my way!’ Salisbury pushed the youth aside and marched under the sculptured portal to enter the cathedral. He wanted to be near the front. For some reason the sermon on the holy Eucharist always thrilled him. Maybe it was hearing about the body and the blood of Christ or today perhaps it was the anticipation of the boy awaiting him in his room. The Earl’s hairy brows arched. Perhaps he should have given closer inspection to the beggar child outside. Peasant children were always expendable and a threesome would not have been unwelcome. Salisbury almost hardened in God’s sanctuary.

  By the time Gillet and Griffith arrived, the cathedral was full to overflowing.

  ‘Alms for the poor on Corpus Crispy?’

  Gillet loosened the pouch tied to his belt, removed a coin and knelt before the boy.

  ‘Can you say Corpus Christi?’

  The lad’s hand struck out to grab the offering.

  ‘Ah, ah. First the lesson, then the reward. Learning often comes at a price, my little friend.’

  The boy’s face mellowed into solemn concentration. ‘Corpus Chris … Chris … ti.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Gillet flicked him the money and a gap-toothed grin lit up the child’s face. He sped off as Gillet and Griffith shouldered their way into the back corner of the long nave. The bells began to ring the noon chimes.

  In Vernon, the wild procession – headed by the priest carrying a long, wooden cross – wound its way through the last street and poured into the village square. They were just in time to witness a woman emerge from the hospice and be taken to the pyre. Anticipation for the event had been steadily building throughout the morning and a feral roar exploded into the air.

  But the sight of the woman disappointed them. They wanted to spew their hatred onto a fearful, terrified prisoner. Instead, her steps were those of a sleepwalker, blank eyes staring ahead, unseeing. It was as though she saw and heard nothing. Her chemise was covered in filth and her once beautiful hair was a cap of butchered hanks that provoked more pity than anger.

  Armand inhaled sharply and his heart skipped several beats when he saw Cécile. It took every ounce of his strength to not fight his way over to her captives and run them through. God, she was so pale! He began to pray hard. Bodies could be healed, hair would grow, but minds were much harder t
o bring back. He knew that. From his position behind the barrel, he watched her progress and his spirit plummeted further with her every step. He would not be able to count upon any assistance from her. He could only hope she would not hinder her own rescue.

  Desultory insults were slung from the crowd as Cécile was hoisted up onto the pyre, her guards leaping onto the piled wood to lash her to the post. Still there was no response from the prisoner. Her gaze wandered vacantly over the gathering with no spark of interest. Nothing.

  Armand’s gaze was also searching the faces. Where were Adèle and her brother? Armand’s stomach lurched. The moment was approaching but still he could not see them. His glance roved to the hilled street down which the lit cart would roll. Where were they?

  Father Jacques approached his wooden dais, set to the left of the stake. He stepped up and raised his arms for quiet. ‘Behold the heretic whose poison touched your village, your brethren, your flock and your children! Watch as we burn her! Let her body and blood be offered to the altar of God on this, the feast of Corpus Christi. Let us pray. Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, santificetur nomen tuum…’

  The people bowed their heads, some repeating the Latin they learned by rote. Armand stood on an upturned bucket and peered into the throng. Any minute now the guards would light the fire. It was at this point Armand realised the folly to part of their plan. He knew Adèle by sight only through fevered eyes and her brother not at all. The idea that they would stand together in the centre, she in a red cloak and he in a blue feathered cap, had sounded reasonable when first suggested. Armand had not considered there may have been many red cloaks and almost just as many blue feathered caps! Sweat trickled down his face and he wiped his brow. The prayer was almost at an end and still he had not spied his accomplices. Would Reynaud send his burning cart down the hill without first hearing Adèle’s scream? Armand’s heart began to beat faster. He glanced at Cécile, noted the number of guards flanking her and, drawing his knife, moved to take his position. He found his passage blocked by two horses. The riders wore a red cloak and a blue feathered cap respectively. Armand’s demeanour changed as he recognised Robiérre d’Arques. The squire was clearly gloating over something.

  ‘Armand-Amanieu d’Albret?’ Adèle smiled at him with feline precision, her voice honeyed. ‘I remember you.’

  Recognition slammed home and Armand recoiled. ‘Anaïs?’

  Anaïs laughed. ‘It’s been a long time since I was a maid in Kent, non? You of all people should know I would do anything for Gillet.’ She nodded toward the pyre and her expression became ugly with hate. ‘I told him in Broughton I would see that bitch burn at the stake!’

  ‘But you were helping us?’ answered Armand, his mouth agape.

  ‘You stupid man!’ scoffed Anaïs. ‘Whom do you think had your precious cousin arrested? And while she burns, Robiérre and I are away to Le Goulet, at your invitation. I do believe there is someone there with whom I wish to visit.’ A whiff of smoke caught them all and Armand spun round. The guards had set their torches to the kindling.

  ‘Please, do not let us distract you, Monsieur d’Albret,’ offered Anaïs, merrily, pulling her horse around. ‘I believe you have something else to do?’ Anaïs kissed her fingers to the pyre and, laughing, spurred her mount towards the gate with Robiérre at her heels.

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ Armand leapt for the pile of wood as flames took a hold.

  Cécile’s eyes stung from the smoke. As though the grey spiral column, wending its way to the clouds, held astringent properties, her presence of mind snapped to attention. To the entertainment of everyone she began to squirm and struggle. They cheered as she let out a long scream.

  A small hand-cart was set rolling. Down the hill it careened, sending people scrambling as fully lighted, it tipped its precious cargo of red-hot coals and burning straw into the mob. Licks of flame greedily devoured clothing and hair and the crowd became a frenzied, squealing herd.

  Guards began scooping water from nearby barrels and threw it haphazardly over the burning villagers, fearful the whole town centre would soon be ablaze. Taking advantage of the disarray, Armand threw his own bucketfuls onto the bonfire, enough to staunch the flames and raise a smoke cloud which allowed him climb up unnoticed. He raised his dagger to slit the ropes when his arms were suddenly slammed by a spade and two guards nabbed him. It was over before he could sing out to Cécile.

  Dragged over the stones, Armand d’Albret was an offering to the disgruntled mob and they kicked, clawed, and spat. He landed heavily at the foot of the dais, sprawling next to Reynaud, similarly caught, bruised and torn. Both men found their hands and neck snapped into a stock. Father Jacques looked down upon them with distaste.

  ‘Think to save the prisoner?’ he screeched. He shook his cross in the air. ‘God will not be cheated on this day!’ A roar of approval greeted this statement as the villagers regrouped. Dusted and plumped, they were ripe for a show.

  ‘We will have our day of reckoning.’ Father Jacques’ fist shot up high and another cry went up.

  ‘God has condemned and so have we. Relight the holy fire. Burn the heretic!’ He thumped his long-handled cross upon his raised platform and set a beat. ‘Burn the heretic! Burn the heretic!’

  The crowd immediately took up the chant.

  Cécile screamed in terror, struggling with all her might. ‘No!’

  Armand fought to his feet and yelled, his voice lost in the chanting. ‘Cécile!’

  The guards dipped fresh torches into a pitch barrel and lit them.

  ‘Cécile!’

  Cécile heard Armand’s cry and, sobbing, strained against the ropes, her fingers stretched out towards him. ‘Armand! God help us!’

  ‘God help us, Cécile!’ choked Armand. Tears ran down his grazed cheeks. ‘Be strong, Angelique! I love you!’ The torches were thrust into the dry rushes.

  ‘So, what next?’ Griffith tightened the drawstring at this waist, feeling the absence of his sword’s scabbard. He patted the knife at his side, hidden from view and felt some satisfaction. His gaze shot around the taproom to observe the collection of the evening’s ale-sodden wretches, most with scantily dressed harlots decorating their laps.

  ‘We wait. The boy said “our visitor” would come to us here.’

  Griffith frowned. ‘Did you not think that street urchin looked familiar?’

  ‘Oui,’ replied Gillet, adding another frown to the table. ‘He was the same lad begging at the cathedral earlier today, the boy with the lisp.’

  ‘He did not lisp tonight when he delivered his message.’

  ‘No.’ Gillet gulped at his ale. ‘He most certainly did not. Clearly we are within someone’s sights.’ He felt an inexplicable sensory perception, gooseflesh along the back of his neck, and knew their guest had appeared behind him. Griffith’s expression confirmed their mystery visitor was known to them. Before he could turn, a voice slithered past his ear.

  ‘Brother.’

  Griffith stood and, with a cursory nod to Gillet, went to find himself another table. Arnaud d’Albret slid in, the spider-thread scars on his face glinting silver in the candlelight. ‘How fortunate to discover you in Bordeaux. Surprised to see me?’ His arm shot across the board, his voice low and malevolent as Gillet went for his dagger. ‘Not here, brother. Surely, we taught you better than that.’

  ‘What do you want? Innocent women to frighten and set upon the road? I doubt you’ll find pregnant ones though.’

  Amused, Arnaud released his hold. ‘Well, certainly not ones infused with royal seed. You must have spewed bile when you learned that.’

  Gillet shrugged. ‘I was only the caretaker of Armagnac’s daughter.’

  Arnaud squinted. ‘That’s not what her twin said when she came blathering at our doorstep in Kent. She, at least, seemed convinced the two of you were lovers. Made enough of it to send Mary packing. So, what brings you here?’

  Beneath the table, Gillet’s fist curled. ‘You do, remember? You told me to mee
t you here. I repeat, what do you want?’

  Arnaud leaned back, enjoying his brother’s discomfort. ‘Several things; I made a list.’

  A serving maid appeared but Arnaud waved her away. He set his hand upon his chin and stroked the stubble, his gaze marching over every curve and crevice on Gillet’s face. ‘You really do amaze me, Ghillebert. You are as enduring as a bog stench. Just when the air clears, there it is again.’ He leaned upon the board and snarled. ‘What are you doing in Bordeaux? Could it be that you are here to meet with our dear cousin?’

  Gillet met the black stare without blinking. ‘Edward sends an emissary. How do you know I am not he?’

  ‘Oh, I know.’

  ‘How?’

  The wolfish teeth flashed. ‘Because I am he. And now I will tell you what I want. I want you to bring Cécile d’Armagnac to this court. Amanieu and I made a promise to the Prince in London that she would be delivered to Bordeaux.’ He raised his brows. ‘And I will see it done.’

  Gillet stood, his hand hovering at his belt, his voice low. ‘Let us take a walk, brother. Now.’

  Arnaud glared but made no move. ‘I will give you one month, Ghillebert. If she is not at Blanquefort by then, I will have you arrested as a traitor. I can guess your true quest and our cousin will not comply. Be grateful I give you this chance to save your skin.’ He stood and brushed off his sleeves with nonchalance. ‘And before you storm off, I have one more request.’

  ‘What?’

  Arnaud’s gaze was piercing. ‘I want my wife back.’