Bonneuil drew himself upright and tightened his grip. Cécile gave a strangled groan as the weapon’s tip scratched her. ‘No! You are trying to confuse me.’
For the first time Gillet dared to look at his wife. Her face was bleached, her eyes wide and frightened and his heart smote. He edged his foot forward, hoping Bonneuil was clueless to his mission of seducing the Albrets back to the French crown. ‘As Albret I am no traitor on Bordeaux soil, but if it were known you are a French soldier, you would be arrested and tortured.’
It was too much for Bonneuil. His expression wild, he snarled over Cécile’s shoulder. ‘I have no French loyalties! I work for Moleyns now.’
Gillet stilled his advance and exchanged stunned glances with Cécile.
‘What?’ panted Bonneuil. ‘I saw that.’ The dagger slid sideways, the sharp edge grazing across his captive’s skin. Cécile let out a terrified gasp.
‘No!’ Gillet forced down his fear and compelled himself to speak gently. He realised Bonneuil was a man on the brink. ‘Bonneuil, Moleyns is dead, weeks ago in Scotland. For whomsoever you work, it is not Moleyns. I give you my word of honour as a knight.’
Bonneuil began to blink rapidly, a film of sweat forming on his brow.
‘Listen to me,’ continued Gillet, ‘no good can come from harming the Lady Holland. Let her go and we can discuss whatever ails you.’
Bonneuil’s pupils shrank to tiny dots and his face turned ugly. ‘Odette Duchamps has something belonging to me. That whore tricked me. I want what is mine and I need it now!’
Cécile suddenly drove her elbow into Bonneuil’s stomach. With her teeth bared, she twisted and slashed the surprised face with her nails. As Bonneuil heaved, she sprung free, her own countenance distorted by disgust. ‘Odette had nothing when she came to me and even if she did, I would not tell you! She was covered in blood and dying, you sick bastard!’
With a furious roar Bonneuil leaped towards her, his weapon raised. In lightning speed Gillet pushed Cécile out of the way and drew his own dagger. He gripped the roundel pommel tightly, the blade lying flat to protect his right forearm, his fist reinforced by his left palm as he braced himself to block Bonneuil’s strike. The force of the blow jarred him to his teeth but he rolled his wrist and swept the sharpened section over Bonneuil’s skin as they withdrew. Bonneuil hissed and ignoring the cut, began to circle. Gillet moved with him and a rhythmic dance began, each man balanced, poised ready to attack. Bonneuil chose his moment. He was desperate and stretched to reach a target but he was unable as Gillet captured his wrists. A tussle of strength ensued and even though Gillet was taller, Bonneuil was sturdily built and held his own.
With neither yielding, they were at an impasse and Gillet broke, realising he could not take any advantage. Again they circled. Gillet shielded against Bonneuil’s next attempt but a miscalculation saw Bonneuil’s dagger score a hit. Cécile screamed and Gillet felt the explosion of pain in his upper arm. Undeterred, he forced himself to remain calm and concentrate. The blood trickled down his skin but his focus never shifted from his target. He beat off two more attacks which left his shield arm scored and bleeding. Bonneuil sneered, sensing his win imminent. Their gazes locked and Gillet saw the triumph on his enemy’s face. Bonneuil launched himself for his winning blow. Gillet grabbed Bonneuil’s wrist and pushed against his enemy to hold him off. Muscles straining, both men were sweating with the effort when suddenly Gillet sidestepped, his opposing force letting go. Bonneuil threw his head up in surprise, the shock exploding in his expression as he toppled forward, caught by the oldest and most effective move. Gillet’s dagger was strategically waiting. It sank into the soft flesh and tore its way up behind the ribcage.
‘That’s for Calais,’ growled Gillet, gritting his teeth. He jerked his wrist hard and the blade sunk deeper. Bonneuil turned white and Gillet was forced to take the man’s weight. ‘That’s for Lady Holland, my wife.’ The staring eyes widened with incredulity and then began to cloud. One last push and the weapon was all the way in. Blood sluiced over Gillet’s hand as he whispered into Bonneuil’s ear. ‘And that’s for Odette, you lying, thieving son of a bitch!’
Bonneuil’s mouth twitched, his lips moving noiselessly as blood seeped between his teeth. A wheezy exhalation was the only reply as Bonneuil slumped to the floor.
‘Come on,’ rasped Gillet, wiping his blade on the bed linen and re-sheathing it. ‘We’d be advised to leave now.’ Cécile gathered their cloaks and Gillet threw open the door but guards met them on the landing. Someone had heard Cécile’s scream. The castle marshal took one look at the body lying in the room.
‘Arrest him!’
‘No!’ cried Cécile, desperately clinging to Gillet as the guards flanked him.
‘Remove the body,’ ordered the marshal, pointing. ‘And find out who he was.’ He turned on his heel to stare at Cécile. ‘Madame, you would do well to follow me.’
Gillet leaned back against the cell wall, stretching out each limb methodically to still the cramps. His right arm ached just below the shoulder where he’d bound it with the sleeve from his shirt after packing the wound with what little moss he could find. Not ideal but under the circumstances, the best he could do. Gillet flexed his bloodstained fingers experimentally and let out a sigh – no nerve damage. His stomach rumbled, reminding him the dinner bell must have rung hours ago. Clearly they did not think it a high priority to feed prisoners at Blanquefort. Then it struck him. He was probably the castle’s first captive! What if they forgot he was even here? He staved his sudden panic in order to think rationally. Two guards had been posted on the other side of the door at the end of the corridor. They’d hardly desert their post. Gillet went to the barred window of the cell door and yelled but it did no good. He sunk down again to wait. At least another hour passed before he heard noise, a muffled sound, some thuds and a laugh. Gillet shouted again and the door finally opened.
‘All right, all right,’ complained the first guard, slipping on his helm. ‘Keep your shirt on.’
‘Yeah,’ barked the second guard, roughly. ‘Who do you think we are? Priests? Here to take your bleating confession of innocence?’
Gillet stared up into the boyish grins of Arn and Gabriel. ‘Well.’ Gillet’s teeth flashed in the dark. ‘About time faith took a hand. And gentlemen, I’ll have you know, I am innocent.’
Twenty minutes later they entered the dining hall and Gillet saw Cécile waiting by the fireplace. She ran to him.
‘The castle has put on extra guards,’ said Arn, ‘one at every entrance so Gabriel has devised a different means of escape.’ Arn winked at Cécile and held out his arms to Gillet. ‘Once again I bid you to fare well. This time, make good your flight!’ They hugged roughly.
‘You know you will be a suspect,’ said Gillet. ‘The Prince is not stupid. You may have sacrificed your own advancement in his service for my sake.’
Arn smiled at his cousin. ‘There is only the advancement of Albret. I do not mean to prick your pride but Prince Edward will not lose my one thousand lances over you or your wife, beautiful though she is. Now go, and may God’s blessing go with you, for mine certainly does.’ He planted a kiss on Cécile’s cheek. Arn reached the doorway and turned around. ‘Do not forget, Ghillebert d’Albret, I would have you, above all, foster my first-born, so stay alive.’
The large dining room was empty of occupants and it echoed. The hearth knights who would normally inhabit such a hall for sleeping were still at Edward’s side in London. The lesser chambers at Blanquefort were currently taken by staff but all that would change when the full contingent of Edward’s household arrived in Bordeaux. Then a pecking order would see every possible square inch of space allocated until there was hardly room to move.
Gabriel led Gillet and Cécile into one of the two fireplaces, which stood side-by-side. It was large enough to hold at least thirty average-sized men standing upright.
‘Reminds me of the ones at Mont St Michel, non?’ remarked Gabriel to Gi
llet, staring around the huge interior.
‘Oui,’ replied Gillet. ‘We are fortunate the castle is not yet fully commissioned or we could be standing knee-deep in flames.’
‘I speak of an angel and you talk of Hell!’ Gabriel shook his head. ‘’Tis time you felt the wind upon your face again.’
Gillet was pensive. It was true. How long would it be before he felt himself truly a free man?
Gabriel tipped his head back and whistled softly. Through the dark a cable wound its way down. He made a loop and hooked it around Cécile’s foot. ‘Griffith will pull you up. Mind your elbows! The chimney begins to narrow after about four feet.
Cécile clung to the rope, her stomach clenching as she spiralled into the gloom. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she could plainly see the round hole at the top of the flue, illuminated now and again by a distant flash of lightning.
Griffith helped her out onto the roof and dropped the line back down. He waited but nothing took up the slack.
‘What are they doing?’ complained Cécile, shivering. The sky flashed again, accompanied by an ominous rumble.
Below, Gabriel and Gillet pressed themselves into the shadows at the far end of the chimney base, watching with bated breath as the rope dangled in plain view. The muffled sounds of kissing came from the hearth where a pair of lovers had drifted into the room. The girl’s increasing sighs were testament to the man’s progress and Gabriel rolled his eyes at Gillet.
‘No, Ramon,’ she protested, softly. ‘You promised.’
‘I promised you love,’ he countered and her heavy moan along with the rustling of skirts brought silent smiles to the men hiding in the shadows. She gasped loudly, her groans picking up a rhythm with which the men were all too familiar. The cable wriggled with impatience. Gabriel gestured for Gillet to take his turn and, hoping the lovers were too engaged in their own pursuits, Gillet stepped out of his darkened corner and placed his foot into the loop. He tugged hard with his good arm and swiftly rose into the darkness.
On the roof Cécile helped Griffith pull up the human cargo, ignoring the burning of her palms. She could see the dark form coming closer and was surprised when her husband appeared grinning like a village idiot. On Gillet’s advice, they waited for Gabriel’s signal before dropping the line again. A full five minutes passed before he gave it.
‘God’s nails!’ exclaimed Gabriel, laughing, when he eventually scrambled onto the roof. ‘Whoever this “Ramon” is, I shall salute him at the next tourney. The lad can last longer than a Scottish winter and I don’t want to see another full moon ever!’
Quickly now the group made their way over the rooftop of the castle, keeping as low as possible in case the guards below happened to glance up. They used the grappling hook and rope again to lower themselves to the ground. Finally they were running full speed across the lawn to the southern wall for the last climb.
Cécile’s hands were raw and bleeding by the time Gabriel hauled the rope over the stonework and wrapped it around his shoulder. Somewhere in the distance, a dog yelped.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘The rest are hiding in the wood about a half-league from here.
‘We do not go to the inn?’ asked Cécile, surprised.
‘No,’ said Gillet. ‘We must be far away by dawn.’ The wind suddenly whipped up and the loosened tendrils of Cécile’s hair flew out wildly like Medusa’s snakes. The sky lit in a blinding flash. ‘I suggest we move as fast as we can.’
Hiding in the shadows, Salisbury let loose his anger on a passing mongrel dog. It yelped and ran off, tail between its legs. The useless piece of shite, Bonneuil, had failed to make his delivery but considering Salisbury had observed the man’s body being loaded onto a cart, it was no wonder. Albret’s work, no doubt.
Salisbury’s expression soured. The one thing that had kept him alive so far was knowing when to withdraw. There were other ways to skin a cat. As Salisbury had waited for Bonneuil, he’d observed a fierce and private argument between Thomas Beauchamp and Humphrey de Bohan, learning one very interesting fact – Albret had wed. De Bohun was returning to England on the next available tide – after a visit to his mistress in Harfleur, of course. Salisbury glanced at the wall over which Albret’s party had escaped and considered his options. He could “bump” into de Bohan in Harfleur and accompany him back to court. That way when the stupid prick spilled his guts about Albret marrying the Holland bitch, he, the Earl of Salisbury, would be there with a sympathetic shoulder for his prince. Then, when the time came to relocate to Bordeaux beside his liege lord, he could continue his investigation of the document.
With matters solved, Salisbury’s disposition brightened. Besides, Harfleur was coastal town and he fancied the smell of salt air and a whiff of anything else fishy on offer.
Gillet de Bellegarde inspected his recently scrubbed nails, spotless now where only a few days ago they had been stained with Bonneuil’s blood. Minette slid her hand into his and smiled shyly. He squeezed it for reassurance, ignoring the pain that shot through his injured arm muscle. ‘Ready?’
She nodded. Minette looked radiant in a pale-green gown, a wreath of gilly flowers pinned into her hair, and her cheeks flushing.
The group had fled from Bordeaux to the small village of Saint Loup on the river Thouet, the castle the most northern defence point in a series of military constructions known as the Dive. It was here, at the keep in Saint Loup, that King Jean le Bon had been brought after his capture at Poitiers, the same bastion now offering them sanctuary. The fortifications of the Dive were the last line of defence to halt the English marching upon Paris. Gillet de Bellegarde was back on French-owned soil.
They arrived weary and soaked to the bone after squelching three days in pouring rain. Today the sun shone with a miraculous brilliance and, as soon as Cécile discovered a priest had taken shelter at the keep also, she declared it God’s will.
The gittern struck up a tune and on the village church porch, Griffith turned, his mouth twitching nervously. Gillet accompanied Minette the short distance to Griffith’s side and the priest began his blessing.
‘Who so giveth this woman?’
‘I do, Gillet de Bellegarde, her Lord and protector.’ He bowed and placed her hand within the priest’s, then stepped away. Cécile was aglow as she and Odette stood to one side, each clutching a fistful of field flowers.
Back at the castle, a long table had been set in the open barn, the Lady Dercé, St Loup’s chatelaine, kindly providing a simple supper for the occasion. A pig had been slaughtered and turned on a spit all day by the kitchen boy. The delicious aroma, combined with that of freshly-baked bread wafted to them as they walked back from the village. Cécile’s hunger was gnawing at her stomach. They headed to the barn to enjoy an evening of festivities under a black velvet sky filled with twinkling stars. Gillet and Cécile had been given the ground-floor chamber in the keep upon arrival, but for tonight, they would give up their bed for the newlyweds and sleep on the hay in the barn with their companions. When the time arrived, Griffith announced he had no wish to put Minette through the bedding ritual. Gillet concurred and the group allowed the lovers to discreetly retire.
Cécile leaned against the short stone wall edging the pea-green moat and watched them go, Minette’s head leaning upon Griffith’s shoulder as they walked to the tower. The gardens were laden with mid-summer blooms and the heady scent after the rain was intoxicating. Cécile breathed deeply of the perfumed air with satisfaction.
Gillet’s hands slid around her waist and he squeezed. ‘What say you, wife, to finding a dark corner in this paradise?’ he whispered into her ear.
‘Will the others not miss us?
Gillet turned to watch Gabriel telling a story. Odette and the boy were listening to him, enraptured. Gillett smiled warmly. ‘I think not for a while. Gabriel has them under his spell. He’s done wonders with the boy. I think he might succeed in drawing the lad from within himself.’
Cécile spun inside her husban
d’s embrace and wound her hands around the back of his neck. ‘Then the world is at peace tonight and I say do with me what you will, milord.’
Gillet bent to kiss her mouth and swept her into his arms. Purposefully, he carried his wife into the dark recesses of the orange grove.
Gillet and Cécile sat on a garden bench, sipping mead and watching Gabriel play stick-ball with Humphrey de Bohan’s chamber boy. It was the cool of evening and the breeze whipped up a mixed scent of floral perfume and stagnant moat water. Just as contradictory was the temperature of the gusts, a lazy warm flow blasted now and again with a burst of icy air.
‘Storm’s coming.’ Gillet tipped his head back and surveyed the horizon. A low grumble sounded as a pageant of whirling leaves paraded past. ‘I think we should depart for Moncontour tomorrow,’ he announced suddenly. ‘The Vicomtesse d’Évreux has an agent posted there, awaiting our arrival. Do you agree Odette is fit for travel?’
‘Her weeping is done and her body heals. Yes, she is fit.’
Something in Cécile’s tone made Gillet look at his wife. He reached for her hand, his voice gentling. ‘If we have no word from Armand by the time we reach Bellegarde then I shall go to Scotland myself.’
Cécile nodded without answer, her eyes welling.
Gillet lifted both her hands and carried them to his lips. ‘Listen to me, Céci. Anaïs took the child as a bargaining tool so she will not harm him. There would be no purpose in that.’
‘I hope you are right but you speak of logic. The woman I met was evil and unsound.’ She wiped her face and sighed. ‘All that time in Vernon, it was Anaïs.’ Cécile stared out at the dark sky, intermittingly lit by flashes, her voice wavering. ‘I’ve not let myself think of that until now; weeks of facing the plague, imprisonment, having my head shorn, missing my husband, losing my child, no news of my sister, trying to be strong …’ Her voice broke. ‘Well, I can do so no more.’
The Gilded Crown Page 34
