The Gilded Crown

by Catherine A. Wilson

  The smoke blotted out the sky. Cécile could still hear Armand calling her name but she could no longer see him. She began to cough, the persistent burning in her throat coursing down to her lungs and setting them on fire. She could hardly breathe. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,’ she rasped, gulping for air. ‘Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.’

  A wailing horn rang out across the square as a thunderous clomping of hooves was heard. The villagers were sent scattering, screaming as the leader of the horsemen, hell-bent on reaching the pyre, rode over pedestrians as though they were grapes to be squashed. He drew his sword and yelled, ‘Hold! In the name of the King! Douse that fire.’

  Soldiers raced to fill buckets and repeatedly threw them over the pyre. Armand watched, terrified of what he might see once the flames had been beaten back. Then he heard her coughing.

  The captain, dressed in the Duc’s livery, dismounted and strode over to Father Jacques, six of his men in his wake. ‘Arrest him.’

  As though waking from a dream, the priest started and squealed ineffectually.

  ‘Release the men in stocks.’

  Cécile was helped down from the woodpile but her legs refused to work. She collapsed and the attending soldier scooped her up in his arms and carried her to his captain.

  The young horseman saluted her. ‘Madame, by orders of the Duc de Berri, Castle Vernon opens it gates to you. We are ordered to escort you and your companions there at once.’

  In the quiet bedchamber of Vernon castle, Cécile stretched her leg out of the steaming tub. She wriggled her toes and turned her foot left and right before retracting her limb to the cosiness of the scented water. Her hair had been trimmed to a short but neat cap, then washed and rinsed twice. She rested her forehead against her knees wearily and breathed deeply of the lavender aroma. How many baths would it take to wash away the horror of the last month? During that time, she and Armand had both faced death but God, in His wisdom, had granted them life. To what end? Her mind repelled thinking about the issue of Anaïs but she knew eventually she would have to face it. Sooner, if Armand had his way, but the Duc’s men had insisted on bringing them up to the castle and it was impolite to slight your rescuers. Cécile let out a long sigh.

  The castle’s steward, upon hearing of the village’s prisoner, had quickly sent word to Gisors. The answer had come swiftly; a contingent of Duc de Berri’s personal guard had been deployed. Cécile glanced at the letter sitting on the stool beside the tub. The broken wax held the imprint of the Duc’s ring. It contained only three words: Please forgive me.

  Cécile rose from the water and picked up the note. She threw it onto the fire, watching the parchment curl and shrivel into ashes. She harboured no resentment toward Jean de Berri. It had not been his fault Father Jacques was a zealot.

  With the assistance of the maid, waiting silently by, Cécile swathed herself in a soft robe, spinning suddenly as she heard Armand’s voice. His hair was still wet, lying sleek against his skull and his skin, freshly scrubbed and glowing, showed signs of new bruising. She smiled warmly at his approach.

  ‘Armand.’

  ‘Céci, sweetheart.’ He drew her into his arms and brushed her short locks, now curling against her neck, with his fingers. ‘I like it,’ he said. ‘Would that you had worn it so when we were young. It might have saved me untangling a lot of fur balls.’ At her wobbly grin, he added. ‘It will soon grow, chérie. How do you really fare?’

  ‘Weary. I could sleep for a week.’

  ‘Then I must disappoint you. I fear our troubles are not yet over.’

  ‘But the physician said …’

  ‘The physician does not know what I do. Cécile,’ he raised her chin so she would look at him, ‘be strong when I tell you this but the Duc’s men have not located Anaïs or her brother in Vernon, and I think I know why.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sweetheart, we must leave and ride hard for Le Goulet immediately. I think Anaïs means to harm your son.’

  ‘We have yet to discuss names.’

  Simon swatted at an annoying midge and looked down at his wife. Catherine was lying on the plaid rug supplied with the picnic basket, as organised by Lady Dunbar. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘I do not know. I thought you might have a preference, a family name perhaps?’

  ‘I suppose it depends on whether it is a boy or a girl!’ Grasping a small knife Simon began to peel a large green apple. ‘The most oft used is Charles.’

  ‘Would you like to name our son for your father?’ Catherine reached for a slice of the fruit.

  Simon considered her offer. Did he want his first born to share the same name as the man he had idolised? Would it be a joyous gift or a painful reminder? ‘It may be a wee lassie,’ Simon teased, invoking a thick Gaelic accent.

  ‘If it is a girl we could call her Matilda for your aunt.’

  Simon chuckled. ‘I would like that.’

  ‘Or perhaps Cécile,’ Catherine suggested.

  ‘Both of which I approve.’ Tossing the core into the long grass, Simon rose to his knees to look over the small mound obstructing his view. Roderick had escorted Lady Dunbar, Tiphanie, English Mary and Girda down the hill to a stream. He could hear Gabby above the cackle of the women as Tiphanie allowed the baby to wiggle his toes in the water. The Marshall household had increased by four in a very short period of time and it would do so again when the new babe arrived. How quickly his life had changed. It was no more than a year since he departed London on Gillet’s request, hung-over, tired and depressed, his life filled with misery and loneliness. Now he was married, had rekindled the enduring friendship of his brother and was enjoying the loyalty of a gaggle of happy servants.

  ‘I would like a little girl,’ he mused. ‘She would complete the ring that circles my heart.’

  ‘We are blessed, Simon, in so many ways.’

  ‘If only we were enjoying all this in Cambridge, for though I appreciate your sentiments, we are living under the goodwill of a foreign monarch.’

  ‘Nor have I forgotten, Simon, that we have a task to complete. The sooner we rid ourselves of that horrible sword, the better,’ Catherine pondered. ‘I hate that I am deceiving Lady Dunbar.’

  ‘The king has given me permission to visit Doune – a perfect ruse. Together Roderick and I will return the Lady and be back in Edinburgh within the week.’

  ‘Does that mean I may remain here?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘I see no need to drag you halfway across Scotland.’

  Catherine’s smile warmed his heart.

  ‘When will you go?’

  ‘It will take Roderick several days to organise, so not until next week.’ He laid his hand on the crest of her belly, his fingers spreading over his child within. ‘What about Hilda? Or Godit?’

  ‘Simon!’

  ‘Alright, then perhaps Morag!’

  Catherine sat up and slapped his wrist. ‘I think not!’

  The ladies bower was proving popular with many of the titled wives squeezing their way into the inner sanctum. Catherine sat down on the cushioned bench to observe. In the far corner, a small crowd sat, mesmerised, as Margaret Logie retold a ribald tale as shared by the King at dinner. Gathered in the centre of the room, ladies clucked around Euphemia like chickens in a coop.

  Lady Dunbar was absent, struck with a megrim, and Tiphanie, much taken with Gabby, was assisting Girda. For the first time in many weeks, Catherine felt a pang of loneliness. She had not spoken with Simon since their picnic two days ago. He rose early each morn and returned to their bed well after she had fallen asleep. And here, in this women’s haven, she was neither invited to Margaret’s circle nor join Euphemia’s ladies, who made her feel very much the intruder.

  Catherine gazed out the opening at the billowing clouds. The evening breeze was warm and salty and immediately evoked the memory of her first sea voyage, the night she had held Cécile in her arms. The pain of separation was no longer as sharp, but sh
e still missed her sister. She missed Gillet and Armand and the boys also. She even had to admit that she missed France!

  Thoughts of impending motherhood sent her mind racing in the opposite direction. What if the babe was born in Scotland? Would it matter? Would she be safe? Travelling back to Cambridge with two infants would require a great deal of planning, but that was preferable to attempting the journey late in her pregnancy. Either way, a decision needed to be made and soon.

  Catherine was enjoying the warmth of the sun on her cheeks when a shadow fell across her face. It was the younger Agnes Dunbar. ‘Lady Wexford, may I join you?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Catherine, gathering up the folds of her gown to make room for the girl.

  ‘I have been looking forward to speaking with you, but find that my aunt holds sway over your company.’

  ‘Lady Dunbar has been most kind. I am not sure I would have survived my visit here without her help and advice.’ Catherine clutched the crucifix around her neck. ‘It is not always easy to find such generosity in others.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Agnes agreed, her attention drifting to Margaret Logie. ‘I find it more difficult to recognise honesty.’

  Catherine watched as Agnes continued to observe the King’s consort.

  ‘She is not beautiful and he claims he does not love her, yet he will not put her aside,’ Agnes remarked spitefully.

  ‘I have learned that men tell untruths in order to manipulate the women in their lives.’

  ‘Of course, I do know that,’ Agnes huffed, ‘’tis just that I am so much younger and prettier. Why does he not want me?’

  Catherine shrugged. ‘I am not the right person to ask.’

  ‘But you and Lord Wexford are happy and there is a great difference in age between you and him.’

  ‘Yes, but I do not think that has anything to do with love.’ Catherine gently patted Agnes’ hand. ‘There are many fine men at court, handsome young knights who would do you great honour. Why set your heart upon someone who is, for all that you say, married to King Edward’s sister?’

  Agnes’ eyes welled. ‘Because I cannot live without him.’

  ‘Has he made you any promise, given you any indication that he will make you his wife should he be widowed?’

  ‘No.’ Agnes sniffed. ‘He won’t even lay with me!’

  Catherine was aghast. ‘Am I to understand that you have asked him?’

  ‘Of course. I thought that if we were together in the flesh we would eventually be joined by the church.’

  Catherine stood to her feet so quickly that she had to place her hand on the wall to steady herself. Margaret Logie and her ladies looked across at her and she nodded before making for the doorway. ‘Will you take a turn in the courtyard with me?’ she asked Agnes over her shoulder.

  Without waiting for a reply, Catherine stepped into the fresh air and began fanning her face. Never had she been so taken aback.

  ‘Lady Wexford, have I offended you? Are you unwell?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘I am not ill, more that I am shocked!’

  Agnes appeared perplexed, her brow furrowed. ‘How so?’

  ‘Please accept my pardon, but I must be blunt,’ Catherine began. ‘Are you so naïve as to assume David will offer you marriage simply because you have lain with him? Surely you must see that many have already done so! How would he be able to choose between you all?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Lady Wexford, but I dinna believe you understand the situation.’

  ‘Then please, by all means, Agnes, explain it to me.’

  ‘My beloved was married to Joan when they were babes and though they are true husband and wife, he does not love her.’ Agnes face was animated and Catherine could see the young woman was becoming excited. ‘Whilst he was a prisoner, in your tower, his wife was not permitted to visit so he took up with a lowly wench for whom he believed he had feelings. In the weeks after her death he was vulnerable and Margaret Logie took her advantage. But withered hags cannot give him a child.’

  ‘I am told that the English maiden was young and of good breeding.’

  ‘But she is no more,’ Agnes stated callously.

  ‘Because she was stabbed to death in a muddy field!’ Catherine could hear the frustration in her own voice. ‘She was a threat, Agnes, to the stability of this country and the men who control it.’

  ‘But I am not! I am young and fertile, and more importantly, I am Scottish!’

  ‘And you think this will protect you?’

  ‘Of course. I am no English bitch!’

  The harsh words hung in the air between them and Catherine could see the regret on Agnes’ face. ‘I’m no suggesting that you …’ she stumbled.

  ‘Be still, I understand your meaning.’ Catherine placed her arm around the girl’s shoulders. ‘I worry for you, as does your aunt. Love often blinds us from the truth and prevents us from accepting the good advice of others.’

  ‘I can assure you, Lady Wexford, I will act upon good advice, when I receive it.’

  ‘Lady Dunbar—’

  ‘Is overprotective and manipulative.’ Agnes pulled away from Catherine. ‘You have placed your trust solely in the hands of a woman you hardly know. You gobble up every piece of information she feeds you, never once considering that she has her own secret, a personal motivation for encouraging your friendship.’

  ‘You are distraught. Lady Dunbar is a kind and gentle woman.’

  ‘And you claim I am blinded? Your dogged admiration of my kinswoman is no different. Be warned, Lady Wexford, not all is as it seems.’ Agnes turned and without another word stormed off in the direction of the royal apartments.

  Catherine walked towards the outer battlements and looked down on the darkening city of Edinburgh. Drinking in the cool air, she tried to still the erratic beat of her heart. The heated conversation with Agnes had upset her. Not only was the girl immature but hot-tempered and argumentative and Lady Dunbar had every reason to be concerned.

  Catherine followed the low wall that ran behind Saint Margaret’s Chapel. The Scottish twilight was beautiful; orange and pink hues streaked across the summer sky. If she were to believe Agnes, then she would need to reassess her feelings for Lady Dunbar. What secret could the older lady be keeping from her and why? Surely it couldn’t be so terrible?

  ‘Are you enjoying the view, Lady Wexford?’ King David stepped from the shadow of a small stone building, his face stern.

  Catherine gasped and her hand flew to her chest.

  David smiled. ‘Where is your gallant husband? Dicing with his brother or whoring with the Campbells?’

  ‘I … I do not think so,’ Catherine replied in confusion.

  ‘Walk with me,’ he commanded.

  Simon’s words sounded like alarum bells in Catherine’s ears. He had told her not to walk about the castle unescorted and she had paid him no heed, for here she was, alone, in the dark, with the very man her husband had told her to avoid. ‘Please forgive me, M’lord, but I was about to retire.’

  ‘I will only be in need of a short moment of your time.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Surely you do not refuse a king!’

  Catherine looked left and right but could see no sentries or guards.

  The Scotsman moved swiftly and, taking hold of her wrist, pulled her towards him. ‘I insist,’ he whispered, tightening his grip.

  David strode across the open lawn, dragging Catherine with him. It was difficult to keep up with his long strides and Catherine lost her footing on several occasions before they reached the gatehouse

  ‘Do you know what that is?’ he asked her.

  ‘The entrance to Edinburgh Castle,’ Catherine squeaked, her throat constricted.

  ‘The gate through which the uninvited enter,’ he snarled. ‘But only guests depart. Do you intend to remain here indefinitely, Lady Wexford?’

  She swallowed hard. Surely he wasn’t expecting her to answer?

  ‘As my honoured guest I have something
else I wish to show you.’ David turned towards the base of a short tower and opened the timber door, pulling Catherine along with him. ‘This is to become my masterpiece, my enduring legacy. It will be long remembered for both its height and its strength.’

  Removing a lit torch from the wall sconce, David led Catherine down a dark set of narrow stairs that finished directly over a deep shaft, the bottom of which she could not see.

  ‘My lion pit,’ David boasted. ‘Very similar to those favoured by the Romans.’

  Catherine quivered with fear as David edged her closer.

  ‘I heard your little discussion this evening with Agnes. It seems you have much to say on matters that are n’owt to do with you.’

  ‘I am worried for her, M’lord.’

  ‘I underestimated you, Catherine. I thought you to be a mousy thing, a shy little nun, controlled by a man who quickly filled your belly with a squawking brat.’

  Catherine was shaking and desperately wanted to flee, but no matter how light of foot she may be, it was ridiculous to think she could outrun David.

  ‘Wexford has much to crow about. A beautiful young wife, a son and another on the way.’ David jabbed at Catherine’s surcoat, her burgeoning pregnancy obvious to all. ‘Is it so wrong to want the same?’

  ‘No, ’tis not,’ Catherine whispered.

  ‘I descend from the original rulers of this land. This kingdom is mine to protect and nurture, as are her people. Mine to do with as I please.’

  Releasing Catherine he peered into the cavity, allowing her some tiny reprieve but now his anger was returning and he grabbed at her throat, his grip strong and unyielding.

  ‘You best tell your husband to take care for I willna be crossed.’

  ‘No, M’lord,’ Catherine wheezed and her knees buckled as David held her over the chasm.

  ‘And keep your advice for your maids, Lady Wexford, else your precious son will be the first to feed my new pet.’

  Tears sprang to Catherine’s eyes as she gasped for breath. ‘No, please no.’

  David pushed her away. ‘Go back to your rooms, Lady Wexford, and see to your family.’