‘Arrange for a second cot to be brought into this chamber,’ ordered Gillet.
‘Yes, Milord.’ Minette almost fell to her knees with her curtsey before she quickly fled.
Gillet was taken aback. ‘What was that about?’
Cécile smiled and seeking firm, solid reassurance for herself, moved to her husband’s side and slipped her hands around his waist. ‘I think Minette suffers from a case of guilt. Something your lordship will have to rectify as soon as possible.’
‘Guilt? Why should she feel guilt?’
‘I think Odette may have disturbed a lover’s tryst in my chamber, if not in my bed, but just how much was plundered I cannot tell without further inquisition.’
Slow to pick up the gauntlet, Gillet’s scowl deepened, then like a parting of clouds after a rain storm, the sun shone through. His brow crinkled as his mouth rounded to the shape of a letter ‘o.’ ‘Griffith?’ He exhaled, grinning like a proud father.
Watching his anger melt Cécile tilted her head back and coaxed her husband’s lips to hers. ‘You need to see them married and without delay, Milord, lest your squire ruin my maid.’ She kissed him gently, mindful of the bruise he would soon sport, courtesy of Arnaud.
‘I’m afraid your second maid has acquired your bed,’ whispered Gillet as he withdrew and ran a finger down her cheek. ‘If you find your cot too lumpy, you could always come to my chamber.’ He softly kissed the corners of her mouth.
‘Much too risky,’ said Cécile, shaking her head. She leaned back, her brow wrinkling. ‘And what do you mean “my second maid”?’
Gillet smirked and pulled her against his breast, tipping her chin upwards. ‘I am aware of my wife’s passion for tending wounded creatures. Odette will not marry anytime soon. If you so desire, she may join our entourage. Good night, my dear. Should you need me, you know where to find me.’ He pressed his lips to hers and, despite his bruised mouth, kissed her proper.
Around the corner from the Bishop’s palace Bonneuil stepped from the back door of the fishmongers, his nose quivering at the barrels of rotten scales leaning against the wall in the noon-day sun. It was done. He’d left an order of two pike for John Moleyns and he would return in an hour for the address where he could meet his employer. Bonneuil fingered the scroll inside his doublet. Pity he couldn’t read, he felt sure he’d be able to squeeze more from the deal. Images from the previous day of Odette spewing filth at him invaded his thoughts and soured his gut. He looked around for a tavern or wayside inn. Stupid bitch! Had she really thought he’d believe the bastard she carried was his? The whore spread her legs faster than butter melting on a hearth. But to come at him with her nails bared. Putain! His lesson had been harsh – he’d not have her nursing false hope or trying to follow him. He blamed her for his bad night’s sleep but at least her behaviour had eased his conscience over leaving. With a fresh spring in his step, he whistled his way to the nearest holstery where he could toss back a tankard and enjoy entertainment between the sheets for two fingers-width of a cheap candle.
Gillet heard the Sext hour bell calling the monks in from the fields at the nearby monastery for noon prayers. He made his way to the stables in search of Griffith but was waylaid by a distressed Lady Katherine.
‘Sir Ghillebert! Why,’ she panted, ‘I was trying to find you. Thank the Lord I did.’
‘Is something wrong, Lady Beauchamp?’ Gillet offered his arm to Humphrey de Bohan’s aunt and escorted her to the nearest garden bench.
‘If there is then the responsibility lies directly at my door and I would not blame you for pelting it with rotten eggs. Oh,’ she placed her hand against her breast as she fought to catch her breath. ‘But then I’ve made a fine mess of things!’
‘Calm yourself, Lady Beauchamp. Pray tell, what is this turmoil? Madame, would you have me fetch Sir Thomas?’
‘Lord, no!’ She rolled her eyes skywards. ‘I can imagine his sermon.’ Lady Katherine took Gillet’s hand into her keeping as he sat beside her. ‘I may have voiced an opinion to my nephew and that fool-headed idiot has taken a leave of absence to hot-foot it back to London with your brother.’ She patted his hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Ghillebert, I did not think he would take me at my word but I may have caused you some embarrassment.’
‘Good lady, what could you have possibly said to cause such anxiety? I know of no truth which can harm me.’
‘Oh, my dear boy, you are too kind but I told Humphrey I believed you and the Lady Holland were married and now he’s accompanying Lord Arnaud so he can wag his tongue to the Prince. It’s pure scandal! I had no proof.’
‘Calm yourself, Lady Katherine.’ Gillet returned the favour and patted her hand. ‘My brother also discovered I am wed and I daresay it was only a matter of time before the Prince learned. Who tells him is of no consequence to me.’
She stared up at Gillet and her mouth fell open. ‘Then I was …’
‘Quite correct,’ said Gillet. ‘Though your discretion would still be appreciated.’
‘I knew it! Well, I daresay you have your own reasons for concealment but I am sorry for being the one to destroy your secret.’
‘Apology accepted, Lady Katherine. What gave us away?’
Katherine Beauchamp’s face lit up. ‘Why, your eyes, dear boy. They are the window to the soul and they never lie. And I have been with the court long enough to know truth when I see it.’ She stood up and began to move away but paused for thought, her finger at her cheek. ‘Sir Ghillebert, if I were to be so bold as to ask you to prove your forgiveness of me,’ she turned to face him, ‘would you?’
Gillet rose and bowed. ‘What is your desire, Lady Katherine?’
‘Desire, yes, exactly. Humphrey left his chamber-boy behind and I cannot possibly take him into my service. Thomas would have a fit. He will suffer no truck with Humphrey. I daresay he has no one else here to take him on and I thought mayhap you …’
Gillet bowed a second time. ‘Consider it done, Milady, in return for your continued prudence.’
‘Bless you, Sir Ghillebert. There is just one more thing. I think Humphrey was less than kind to the boy, especially before his departure, if you get my drift, sir.’ Lady Katherine blushed. ‘I will be the first to admit that my nephew is far from perfect and … well, that is to say a man’s needs must be met and some men will meet them in any available way.’ Her expression softened. ‘He may have damaged the boy,’ she tapped her temple, ‘up here.’
Gillet nodded. A sudden image of his own childhood flashed before him; a young boy, stretched naked, across a log as a group of youths watched on. He turned abruptly from Lady Katherine. Had she not just said the eyes were the window to the soul?
‘Have the lad call at Lady Holland’s chambers,’ he threw over his shoulder brusquely, resuming his journey to the stable.
‘Lady d’Armagnac?’ In Cécile’s chamber, Odette sat up in bed and gingerly felt her face. To the onlooker she was still puffy from weeping and all around her nose was swollen, the discolouring deepening every hour.
‘Odette!’ Cécile turned from Gillet and went to sit on the bed. ‘How do you feel?’
Odette pulled a face. ‘Like the fool I am. I’m sorry to have put myself upon you.’
‘Nonsense!’ chided Cécile. ‘We are pleased you came to us.’
Odette peeked over to Gillet and her mouth fell open. ‘The courier!’
Cécile smiled warmly. ‘Yes, the courier but that is a story for another time. For now you must keep his identity our secret. In this court he is known as Sir Ghillebert d’Albret.’
The awe in Odette’s voice could not be mistaken. ‘You are Sir Ghillebert? Well, that makes some sense. You should hear the maids in the kitchen …’ Seeing Cécile’s scowl, Odette quietened. ‘Forgive me, Lady. What time of day would it be?’
‘Perhaps you should ask what day it would be,’ countered Gillet, moving from his one-cheek perch on the corner of the desk to glance out the window. ‘The hour is past Nones. You have
slept through the sun setting and rising past its zenith.’
There was a knock at the door.
Cécile glanced in frustration at her husband, their conversation of earlier, on how and when to escape, interrupted by Odette’s wakening. ‘Honestly! My chamber has become busier than a brothel after a tourney! And your squire has yet again sequestered my maid.’ Ignoring Gillet’s raised brows, she opened her door to find the young chamber-boy of Humphrey de Bohan standing there looking up at her with big, round eyes. His cheeks showed the odd colouring of old bruising and, like Odette, the darker shades of more recent.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Gillet, moving to pull the boy inside. ‘I forgot to tell you. You have a new page as well. What is your name, lad?’
The boy’s head fell to his chest. He remained silent.
‘Is he mute?’ asked Cécile, frowning as she closed the door.
‘No more than the beggar children asking for coin outside cathedrals,’ said Gillet. The child’s glance flew up and he was rewarded with a wink. Gillet settled him with a goblet of water and a chunk of bread then took Cécile aside to whisper. ‘Lady Katherine asked if we’d take him. I’ll explain later. She thinks Humphrey may have damaged the boy and he has taken a bad reaction.’
‘To the bruising?’ Cécile looked over Gillet’s shoulder to where the lad had curled up into the corner. He had not touched either food or drink.
‘No, to the buggering. I’m sorry, wife,’ grimaced Gillet, ‘it would seem you have two birds with broken wings to heal.’
By sunset both Odette and the boy had fallen asleep, the latter much earlier, still huddled up. He had refused to move but had accepted a coverlet and bolster. Cécile heaved a sigh of relief as Gillet sat beside her. He watched her gaze at the boy, her contemplation turning glassy as she lost her present surroundings to stare into a faraway place. Gillet took her hand and pressed it softly to his lips. ‘I know of whom you are thinking and if anyone can save your son, it will be Armand.’
Cécile sighed. ‘I miss him so.’
‘I know.’ Gillet rose to pour them refreshment. They had spent the last hour learning of Odette’s duplicity and now knew Bonneuil had the scroll. The Madiran wine turned to vinegar in Gillet’s mouth as he considered how Bonneuil had played on Odette’s misfortune. The whoreson had convinced the girl he really loved her.
‘What now?’ asked Cécile, sipping the Gascon brew delicately.
‘We leave as soon as possible,’ answered Gillet, tip-toeing over to the corner. He pulled the coverlet over the boy’s shoulders and returned to sit at Cécile’s feet, leaning against her legs. She combed her fingers through his raven-glossy locks. ‘I was sent here for two reasons and I have failed at both tasks,’ he murmured miserably.
‘The first was not yours to fail,’ said Cécile. ‘Arn made up his mind before leaving Tartas and the Vicomtesse de Gisors will understand this. She will keep her promise.’
‘And if she does not?’
‘Then I shall convince her.’
Gillet turned to rest his chin on her knee with a smile. ‘And how will you do that, wife? With daggers or swords?’
Images of Duc de Berri standing at the foot of her bed sprung into Cécile’s mind. She pushed them aside resolutely, knowing she would exploit the incident to her own ends if necessary. She ran her hand softly down Gillet’s cheek. He turned his head to kiss her palm. ‘Neither,’ she whispered. ‘I will use a woman’s weapon – allurement.’
Bonneuil made his way past the hovels in Blacksmith Lane, the reek of scorched steel and armour grease permeating the air. He trod down the darkened alley and turned into an inner courtyard where a pilfered, broken statue of Saint Martin of Tours cutting his cloak in half leaned against the stone wall at an odd angle. Dark shapes fluttered softly in the night and drifted from sight as the stench of rotted fish and open sewers made him gag. A bundle of rags shifted and Bonneuil drew his blade lightning-fast but the ragged lump grunted and slunk across the cobblestones into the gloom. A shuttered window muted the sounds coming from within the nearby bawdy house and an old, broken pillory stood in the centre of the courtyard, mocking the constabulary.
Bonneuil’s courage wavered and he silently cursed Moleyns for his choice of venue. It was past curfew and even the night-watch avoided coming here – Beggars’ Corner, home to the city’s thieves and vagabonds.
At a shuffling noise, Eustace snapped his head around to find a crook-back boy, his face marred with boils, holding out a grubby hand. His leg was bandaged at the knee, stinking pus oozing over the wrapping.
Bonneuil swiped the boy’s arm aside. ‘Get out of my way!’ He flashed his dagger and the youth hobbled off, only to stop under the cover of shadows to tighten his bandage, his back as supple as a willow. Eustace bunched his fingers into a fist and marched steadfastly towards the tavern. He sheathed his weapon and pushed open the splintered door.
Inside the low-lit establishment he spoke the password and was given entrance. He paused to let his vision adjust, his nostrils quivering as his stomach honed in on the aroma of roasted meat; in one corner a whole hog hung on a spit over a fire. Through the smoky haze he caught glimpses of the bare-breasted whores, their pale flesh glistening as they draped over the lusting, sweaty men with flushed faces. On a pile of cushions, a lute player strummed drunkenly, his expression one of pleasure as a young woman leaned against him, her hand busy within his braies as she crooned a lullaby.
Bonneuil felt his own loins stirring and shook himself to stay alert. He could not afford to lose his senses in such territory. He’d wind up greeting the dawn on a midden pile, stark naked and as skewered as a Yule-tide boar. He sung out for ale and looking around for his contact, found him patiently waiting at a table in an alcove, sipping on a tankard. The man must have balls of steel, thought Eustace as he pulled out a stool and sat down. Either that or he was known here.
‘Moleyns?’
Salisbury nodded. ‘One and the same. Do you have it?’
‘I do.’
‘Show me.’
Bonneuil withdrew the rolled parchment from his tabard, the wax seal broken. He held it out for Salisbury to see. ‘The king’s two insignias as requested. Payment.’ He wiggled the fingers of his other hand pointedly, impatient to be gone.
Salisbury snatched up the parchment and unrolled it to reveal a badge of three golden lions in one corner and the symbol for Woodstock, a tree stump, eradicated and couped, in the other. He drew in his breath sharply. ‘I asked for the scroll with the insignias of two kings. You bring me two insignias from one king and his prince!’ He began to read, ‘“Item – one great bed with embroidered fabric, half the threads being in gold and laid with red camaca, there follows cushions, blankets, coverlet, sheets and matching curtains. Item – one bed with embroidered angels, there follows all cushions, blankets, coverlet, sheets and matching curtains. Item – blue garment with the roses of gold and ostrich plumes. Item – two shrines of silver-gilt enamelled in the same way, crosses, chalices, vessels, candelabras, basins, liveries …” You bloody fool!’ He shook the parchment and slammed it down. ‘This is the list of royal contents for the prince’s boudoir!’ His fist hit the table and the candle rocked. ‘The scroll I want has insignias from two, two kings,’ he hissed, ‘a plaguey Scottish thistle on one side and a sprig of broom on the other! Not this. This … is useless.’
Bonneuil felt his shackles rising. ‘Then if that is what you wanted, that is for what you should have asked. You made no mention of a poxy Scottish king! How was I supposed to know?’
Salisbury’s eyes bulged. ‘Because the other is of huge importance, not a list of princely conveniences,’ he snarled. ‘Why would anyone pay for this?’ He flicked the parchment back to Bonneuil in disgust and leaned in, trying to keep his voice low through his anger. ‘The scroll I want is proof that King David of Scotland has signed his throne over to Edward III whereupon said king has, in turn, bequeathed it to his second son, John of Gaunt. Do you understand no
w, stupid Frenchman? England will sit upon Scotland’s throne and the France that you whine you no longer care about will have no ally. And you confuse that with a bloody list of bed linen!’
Bonneuil blinked at him, prickling indignantly. He felt a tightening in his gut that usually preceded a rush to the latrine but he steadied himself. ‘I confuse it?’ he repeated. ‘Unlike you, Lord Moleyns, I cannot read script. Instead, I steal for great lords who don’t like to get their lily-white hands dirty. You said it would be the only scroll with two insignias.’ He grabbed the parchment and scrunched his fist in Salisbury’s face. ‘Well, this has two poxy insignias. You never said what they were!’
Bonneuil glanced around to see if their voices had attracted attention but only the bar-keep raised his head. Opposite him, Salisbury poked two fingers into the air and pointed at the sizzling pork. The man nodded in reply and picked up a large carving knife.
‘I suggest we try to keep ourselves inconspicuous,’ remarked Salisbury, taking a calming breath. ‘I thought you would read the scroll.’
‘If I could, I would,’ retorted Bonneuil, burying his face in his tankard. Both men lapsed into a sulky silence until the slap of a dish upon the table had their tastebuds salivating. Each man picked up a thick, juicy hock.
‘You’ll have to go back,’ slurped Salisbury after a few minutes. He wiped the grease from his chin.
‘Uh? What?’
‘I need that proof. It is still in the Prince’s chamber. You’ll have to go back.’
Bonneuil sank his teeth into a thick piece of meat and held up the bristly skin pointedly. ‘Pig’s arse, I will.’
‘Then I will not pay you.’
At Bonneuil’s sudden move to his sheathed weapon, Salisbury held up the ham-hock like a Viking’s club. ‘I would advise against it.’ He gesticulated to the far wall where a hairy, behemoth leaned alongside a post, sharpening his cleaver. ‘Unfortunately, we have come under his observation and he looks eager for play.’
The Gilded Crown Page 32
