English Mary and Tiphanie nodded their assent and went to stand with Beatrix’s maids.
‘And what do you have planned for me? Roderick asked.
‘I intended to conceal you on the floor amongst the pillows, but that is no longer going to be possible.’
‘Might I suggest a deception?’ Lady Dunbar removed her cloak and handed it to Roderick. ‘There are several large gowns in my chest that may just cover your girth.’
‘Are you proposing I dress as a maiden?’ Roderick’s horrified expression caused Walter to snigger.
‘It would be our best option.’ Simon clamped his hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘We can cover you with a blanket and Lady Dunbar’s cloak.’
‘I’d rather make my own way to Craigmillar.’
‘But I need you here!’
‘You can sit beside me,’ suggested Catherine.
‘That way you can hold his hand,’ Walter jested.
Roderick shot his tormentor a look of disgust. ‘Our snivelling brother-by-marriage is far more feminine than I! Throw him in the back with the women.’
‘I want Walter up front. The sentries are expecting Lord and Lady Odistoun and party to depart tonight and I will need to address whatever arrangement Robert Stewart has implemented to aid our escape. I am sorry, brother, there is no other choice.’
Roderick’s shoulders slumped as Lady Dunbar passed him a large, linen gown. Discarding his doublet, he pulled the garment over his head. ‘It is far too short!’
‘Once you are seated we can cover your braies with the plaid. Now, bend on one knee,’ Lady Dunbar instructed.
Simon stifled a grin as the old woman smoothed his brother’s hair, then placed a veil and circlet upon his head.
‘This will appear much more effective,’ she added.
‘I look ridiculous!’
‘No, Roderick,’ Catherine disagreed as he squeezed in beside her. ‘More a very unattractive lady’s maid.’
‘Perhaps if you hold Gabby?’ Tiphanie suggested.
‘Yes, excellent,’ Lady Dunbar agreed, shifting into her seat beside the unhappy Beatrix as the baby was passed to Roderick.
‘It will soon be Lauds. We must be on our way.’ Simon pushed upon the large stable door and grasped the bay mare’s reins. It took some encouragement to get the horses moving, the cart shuddering backwards and forwards several times before they had even exited through the doors. ‘We may need to discard the remaining chests.’
‘If you remove any more of my things, I will refuse to leave.’ Beatrix stubbornly threw out her chin and crossed her arms.
‘I could walk?’ Catherine suggested.
‘No, I want you and Lady Dunbar to remain seated, with your heads covered. Girda, I’m afraid …’
‘I am at your service, Lord Wexford,’ Girda replied, clambering over the side.
The cart slowly rolled forward, the wheels bumping and deviating wildly between the cobblestones and ruts. Simon had dressed simply in a plain undershirt and woollen stockings covered by the worn, brown cloak obtained from the horse-master. He smiled as he recalled the look of disbelief as the man accepted his crimson, ermine-lined garment in return.
The light of early dawn streaked across the sky, though the approach to the castle remained in relative darkness, positioned as it was, further down the hill. Simon hoped they had timed their departure well. It would be much better to face weary sentries who had been on duty all night, than their replacements, fresh from a good night’s sleep.
The horses were travelling at an annoyingly slow pace, making their approach observable for an extended period of time – long enough for several of the sentries to point and laugh.
‘Whoa, whoa there, slow down.’ The sergeant-at-arms stepped from the shadows and stood in front of the Constable’s Tower. ‘You appear to be in a hurry to leave,’ he remarked sarcastically.
‘Lord and Lady Odistoun are returning to Craigmillar,’ Simon announced, his grip on the bridle tightening.
‘Looks like you got quite a load?’
‘My wife is entering her confinement and I am removing the maids to attend her,’ Walter qualified as the guard made his way towards the rear of the cart.
Simon turned and looked back into the carriage. Roderick had Gabby on his lap and had buried his face in the baby’s shawl. Lady Dunbar had covered her head with her cloak and was leaning forward, to hide Catherine from view.
‘There are many women in your party and the day has barely begun. Thieves and vagabonds abound at this hour,’ the sergeant continued. ‘Do you not think it wise to wait until there is greater amount of traffic on the road?’
‘I fear the horses will find the descent difficult and additional obstacles will only hinder our passage,’ Simon explained.
‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to end up behind you!’ the guard sniggered.
Simon held his breath as the sergeant pulled back one side of the leather covering and peered at Roderick.
‘I don’t recall seeing you about the kitchens?’ The guard remarked to Roderick.
‘Lord Odistoun, departing so soon?’ Robert Stewart strode towards them, dismissing the sergeant as he did so.
Walter’s eyebrows shot skyward at the unexpected appearance of his nephew. ‘I am surprised to see you at this early hour.’
‘There are some things that require my personal attention, no matter the time of day.’
Simon nodded in acknowledgment. So this was Robert’s plan!
‘Open the gate and let them through,’ Lord Steward commanded as he turned to Walter. ‘’Tis well you depart at dawn for it will take more than a week for you to reach your destination in this contraption.’
‘I am in no hurry,’ Lord Odistoun replied snidely.
‘Any parting message for the King?’
‘None that I would have you convey.’
The portcullis began to rise and Simon immediately encouraged the horses forward. ‘Thank you for your assistance, Lord Robert.’
‘May your journey be productive,’ Robert replied, his gaze locking with Simon’s.
The carriage inched beneath the gate and the loud clank of the closing mechanism brought a smile to Simon’s face, but he did not look back, concentrating instead on the steep terrace ahead.
The winding road was treacherous and a light sea mist dampened the surface, causing the horses to lose their footing on several occasions. Passing the reins to Walter, Simon jumped from the cart and took hold of a head collar. The last thing they needed was a carriage accident, not now they were so close to the bottom of the hill.
‘Do not take the Netherbow Port,’ Simon instructed Walter as he tugged the cart onto the verge.
‘Why? It is the best route.’ Walter moved aside and allowed Simon to retake control.
‘If we were going directly to Craigmillar,’ Simon replied, directing the horses over a small incline and onto a lower turning.
‘You are heading to Cowgate?’
Simon ignored Walter’s question. His odious brother-by-marriage need not know their plans, particularly as he and Beatrix would not be joining them.
‘Are we hostages?’
‘You would need to be worth something to me if that were the case,’ Simon jeered.
‘I am still the King’s brother.’
‘As you are apt to remind me!’
‘I will not go willingly, I warn you—’
‘I have no intention of causing you harm,’ Simon interrupted as they rounded a sharp bend and pulled up beside the Market Inn. ‘In fact, you and your wife and maids are free to go.’ Simon resisted the urge to grin as he alighted the carriage.
Walter appeared genuinely surprised as he watched Simon and Roderick assist Catherine and Lady Dunbar from the cart. ‘I trust I shall be compensated?’
‘As long as you keep your mouth shut!’
‘I have just as much to lose from this situation as you,’ Walter moaned and lowered his face as a small, well-dressed pa
rty on horseback passed them.
‘Then I would advise that you travel directly to Craigmillar and remain there quietly until you hear from me.’
Walter mumbled his displeasure as the carriage jolted forward and moved away quickly, assisted by the lighter load, Beatrix sitting forlorn in the rear with nothing more than one plaid and her cloak.
Catherine sat down on the larger of their chests which had been placed on a grassy knoll. The trip had been slow and, squeezed in between Roderick and Girda, she had been unable to stretch her legs. Tiphanie and English Mary seemed better for the walk, their faces flushed from the exercise.
Two young boys appeared from the side alleyway and carried off one of the chests.
‘Lady Wexford, would you care to walk with me to the rear of this inn?’ Simon offered his arm.
‘I have no right to feel weary.’ Catherine smiled. ‘Given that I have been seated all morning. Yet I am bone-tired.’
‘I am not surprised. You did not sleep well.’
‘No, nor will I again until my head rests upon an English pillow.’
Simon laughed. ‘If only it were that easy.’
A stable was positioned behind a row of trees at the rear of the old building and a troop of kilted soldiers stood, mingling beside a covered wagon. Simon untied his destrier and led it into the sunlight where he addressed an older gentleman, his grey beard stretching down to the middle of his chest. ‘Thank you for providing safe accommodation for our horses.’
‘You’re welcome, laddie. ‘’Tis good to see you,’ the Scotsman drawled. Lifting his gnarled walking stick, he pointed it in Catherine’s direction ‘And who is that fair thing? Surely not your wife?’
‘Catherine, this is Sir Symon Locard. He has offered to conceal our small party at Craiglocard Keep, at least for the time being.’
‘Thank you, Lord Locard, we are in much need of reliable friends,’ Lady Dunbar added as she took his proffered arm.
Catherine rubbed the small of her back. ‘It will not be long before I am no longer able to travel at a moment’s notice.’
‘I think you will be much happier once we return to Cambridge,’ Girda surmised.
‘Most certainly.’ Catherine grinned as she caught sight of Roderick. He had retreated to the barn to change, but now stumbled into the courtyard struggling as the gown stuck firm over his head.
‘Wexford, it is not necessary for your maids to discard their clothing!’ Locard disapprovingly announced.
Giggling like a young girl, Lady Dunbar whispered the circumstance to Lord Locard, who covered his mouth and coughed in an attempt to disguise his mirth.
‘For the love of God, can you not help me, brother? My braies are untied and are about to find their way to my ankles!’ Roderick bounced back against the carriage, the offending garment wrapped around his body.
Simon unsheathed his dagger and slid the blade through the material, releasing Roderick’s arms.
‘Next time you wear the dress,’ Roderick joked as he tossed the ruined cloth at Simon.
Margot d’Albret tiptoed to the straw-filled box, the sleeping baby in her arms. Unable to resist one last token of affection she kissed his petal-soft forehead.
Jean Petit scrunched his face in reply and, grunting, began to squirm.
Cursing her lack of self-control, Margot placed the infant in his bed before he woke completely. He was such a fractious child; the merest disturbance could set him off. She should have known better than to press her luck and she watched anxiously as his eyelids fluttered, then settled once more into sleep. Margot exhaled slowly as she gazed at her charge, her heart filled to overflowing. She had never known such complete happiness. If – God forbid – Cécile did not return … Margot crossed herself quickly. God punished uncharitable thoughts! But – she paused to consider it more carefully – if such circumstances were to arise, she would gladly take upon the mantle of motherhood.
Over the last week she’d dropped subtle hints that it was time they departed Le Goulet but Gabriel would hear none of it. Since La Peste had seen fit to ignore the hamlet, he stood firm in his decision to wait until the gates of Vernon reopened. Margot pulled the cover over the child, still smiling with adoration. Perhaps God had sent her this baby to replace the one she’d lost. She caught her breath. Maybe, just maybe, this had been His plan all along and she would receive special sanction to look after the Prince’s son, and in doing so, collect a healthy pension.
Margot fell back onto the bed and fanned herself with a nearby parchment, ashamed at the twisted path her thoughts had taken.
Minette glanced up from her needlework. ‘Milady? Are you not well?’ The loyal maid was making a gown for Jean Petit – cream and blue, edged with green embroidery.
‘I am well, Minette, thank you,’ wheezed Margot. ‘No need for your concern.’ All the same, Margot sat a moment longer, the better to still her racing heart … and her head.
Gabriel, Margot, Minette and Jean Petit had settled to their existence in Le Goulet in a tiny abandoned cottage with the permission of the hamlet’s council. The house belonged to the son of a thatcher but after his father’s death, the young man had bolted to Paris with dreams of finding greatness at court and left the dwelling to rot. Gabriel offered his services to the hamlet’s governing board by way of payment for his keep and that of his “two sisters” during their temporary stay. He had not mentioned the baby. Some days Gabriel collected rents for the council, other days he dug latrine trenches. He was also given license to hunt in the nearby forest and, for a fee, could sell the meat and fur to pay for their food.
So when a young couple arrived late on the afternoon of Corpus Christi, asking for the giant blonde-haired knight they were directed accordingly.
‘The thatcher’s cottage,’ informed Theirn le Bois whose sister daily left a bucket of milk in the dwelling’s tiny barn before dawn. He pointed down the mossy laneway. ‘You can’t miss it.’ The two horses headed toward their destination.
Margot peeked into the makeshift cradle but Jean Petit was fast asleep. Her thoughts strayed to the boning-out of the rabbit for the evening stew when she heard Minette’s gasp and looked up to find a couple standing at the front door of their cottage. Without invitation they stepped inside, the woman’s eyes darting over the interior with reptilian alertness. It was a wonder her tongue didn’t flick.
‘May I help you?’ asked Margot, thinking they were from the hamlet’s council.
The man bowed in greeting. ‘My good and righteous Lady, we are sent from Vernon, by the Lady d’Albret, to collect her child.’
Both Margot and Minette started, the latter dropping her embroidery and rising to her feet as she exclaimed. ‘Milady is well? And Monsieur Armand?’
‘Indeed,’ answered the young squire, ‘both well, else I would not be here now asking for the child.’ As he spoke, the woman moved towards the box, her face lighting up as she spied the contents.
Deftly Margot blocked her path. ‘Then why does the Lady Cécile not come herself?’
‘She,’ the man’s gaze flew to his companion, ‘is a little tied up.’ He giggled and his sister glowered at him.
‘She is busy.’
‘Too busy to collect her own son? What is she doing?’ demanded Margot, her hands perched at her hips with authority. She squinted at the woman – fair-skinned, green-eyed, slender build with long, dark hair. ‘I never saw you in Vernon.’
‘Madame, there were many you did not see in Vernon and you were lucky to do so. I should have escaped with you that day. My name is Adèle, friend to Reynaud, the blacksmith.’
‘Oh. Then you are the woman who was trapped in the city after us?’
The stranger sidled closer. ‘Vernon’s gates have reopened. We are here to collect the child.’ She held out her arms expectantly.
Margot’s stomach rolled. The act of giving up the baby had come far sooner than she imagined and she was shocked to find she was not ready to do so. She had expected a co-habitatio
n with Cécile, more time to share the child, but this ‘handing over’ was not what she wanted. Grasping for reasons to hang on she scowled as suspicious thoughts gathered like a flock of frightened sheep before a storm. ‘Why has Cécile not come herself? And why does she want the child to return to where the plague has rifled among the living?’
The girl’s expression darkened and turned sullen. ‘I cannot tell you what brings Lady d’Albret to such an arrangement, only that we are sent to collect him.’ She nodded to the improvised cradle where Jean Petit had begun to stir.
Minette joined Margot, adding herself as a buffer between the visitors and the child. ‘Do not trust them, Madame. These folk are not sent by Milady.’
Margot shot Minette a sideways glance. ‘How do you know?’
‘Because since her marriage Milord instructed Milady to always call herself “Lady de Bellegarde”, and twice now they have referred to her as “Lady d’Albret”.’ Minette tossed her head at them. ‘How do they even know she is Albret?’
Margot realised the astuteness of Minette’s reasoning. She straightened her back with the haughtiness of aristocracy. ‘How do you know Cécile?’
‘I see you need convincing. Brother, go get your sword.’
Robiérre’s answering grin sent chills down Margot’s spine. His sister stepped closer, her voice low and venomous. ‘I am Anaïs d’Arques and I am the true wife of Gillet de Bellegarde or Ghillebert d’Albret, by whatever name he wishes to be known in France.’
Both women guarding the cradle gasped. Margot searched for something she could use as a weapon. She spread out her arms in a protective manner. ‘You will not take this child. He is … he is …’
Anaïs cocked her head and sneered. ‘The son of a prince, I know. And he will do nicely to trade with that bitch’s sister in Scotland for my son.’ A fleck of spittle landed on Margot’s cheek. ‘The child Gillet and I created together! Did those Holland whores think I would not find out?’ She paused to lick her lips, her breath coming in short pants. ‘And when I have my son, I shall claim my rightful place beside my husband.’
The Gilded Crown Page 23
