Gillet sensed a different storm approaching and pulled her into his arms.
Cécile wept broken-heartedly for a few minutes, the release of weeks of tension wetting Gillet’s shirt. When her tears slowed, Gillet kissed her brow.
‘Céci,’ he whispered tenderly. ‘You have been so courageous, Lady Mine, and the good Lord knows you have every right to weep for a month. I know it is harsh of me to ask but can you not remain strong for just a little while longer?’
Cécile sniffed loudly. ‘Now is not the time, is it?’
‘Nor the place,’ agreed Gillet. ‘Here.’ He pulled out a kerchief and held it to her nose. ‘Blow. I swear by all that is holy, Armand will do everything in his power for your son. Simon and Catherine will be there to help.’
Cécile nodded. ‘I know. I feel a little better now.’
The sound of laughter came to them from across the lawn where Gabriel wrestled the lad to the ground and tickled him mercilessly. The squeals were a welcome distraction and made Cécile smile. ‘Has he spoken yet?’
‘No, not yet,’ replied Gillet. ‘But I do not think it will be long before he is talking again.’
Later that evening, Cécile checked on the lad, as she did every night before retiring. Griffith and Minette were not in the barn but Odette was snoring softly beside the boy. Cécile gazed at the dishevelled crop of his straw-coloured hair, still decorated with grass seed from his tumble at Gabriel’s expense, and beneath the unruly thatch, the angelic face in sleep. A maternal rush had her folding the boy’s discarded tunic and she neatly straightened his boots at the end of the pallet. Frowning at his careless disregard for the eating-knife strewn on the travelling chest, she picked it up and looked for its sheath. She saw the leather laces protruding from beneath the boy’s pillow and eased it out to slide the knife in. It would not fit. Something blocked its passage. Curious, she peered into the scabbard, surprised to see a crushed piece of parchment. Cécile glanced back at the two sleeping servants and then pulled the obstruction free.
She took it over to the candle-light, her face skewing with perplexity as she unrolled it, then looking as though she had been struck by one of the storm’s lightning bolts. Her mouth fell open and she hurriedly covered her gasp as she began to understand the magnitude of what she held in her hand. She spun to stare at the lad and very quietly tip-toed to the door whereupon she ran across the yard as fast as she could.
Inside the keep Gabriel and Gillet were busy sharing a wine-skin. Both men looked up in surprise as Cécile fell into the room, breathless.
One look at his wife and Gillet grabbed his nearby sword. ‘What is it?’
Cécile waved her hands madly at him in negation. ‘No, no,’ she panted. ‘This is good news. You did it! We did it! You shall be free. No more hiding.’ She splayed the parchment onto the table before them. It was a document bearing two seals, a Scottish thistle and a sprig of broom – insignias of the kings of Scotland and England.
Gillet read it with Gabriel looking over his shoulder, their eyes widening at every word.
‘The bloody, old goat!’ breathed Gabriel. ‘Merde! King David promised Scotland’s throne to John of Gaunt!’
Gillet reread it, as yet unable to believe his luck. ‘I hold within my grasp, my freedom,’ he whispered. Beaming, he turned to Cécile. ‘The Dauphin will know me as a loyal subject when I present him with this.’
‘We must hurry to Moncontour,’ concluded Cécile, clapping her hands together in delight. ‘The Vicomtesse’s agent must deliver this with all speed.’
‘Yes, yes,’ agreed Gillet, reading over the parchment again. He raised his head to frown at Cécile. ‘But where did you find it?’
‘It is mine.’ The boy stood at the open door. He lifted a loaded crossbow and pointed it at Cécile. ‘And I shall require its return.’
Simon knelt behind the stack of crates and peered through a small gap. Roderick was behind him, watching the alleyway where their horses were tethered.
‘Are you sure we have the right inn?’ Roderick asked as a noisy group of revellers entered the establishment across from them.
‘No, but it is the only one perched over the river.’ Simon cast his gaze along the area known as The Shore. Several ramshackle buildings sat abandoned on the water’s edge and a small number of boats had been tied to the only nearby buoy. ‘My gut tells me this is it.’
‘Shall we wait for Catherine?’ Roderick asked.
Simon closed his eyes. He pictured himself rushing the backstairs and confronting Anaïs, thrusting his sword through the witch and her brother, snatching Gabby and Jean Petit before Catherine even arrived. But something was holding him back. ‘We have no idea of the layout of the building and I am not sure that they are travelling alone. At least with Armand and Walter we have the greater strength of numbers.’
Roderick scoffed. ‘Walter can stand by the door.’
Simon smiled. ‘He can hold a blade and look menacing. That may be enough.’
‘I will wait by the bridge and direct the carriage here.’
Simon watched Roderick slip away then turned his attention back to the unnamed inn. A light shone brightly from the room above the main entrance, whereas the remaining windows were dark. Waiting alone was frustrating. Simon considered whether he could slip unnoticed into the tavern, at least then he could ask the inn-keeper a few questions. But there were risks. There were always risks. He shifted his weight and moved closer to the wall. Perhaps he could find a better vantage point. Bending low, he crept beneath a side window and made his way to the rear of the building. The shrill cry of a child rang out through the darkness and Simon was immediately on his feet.
He knew his actions were irrational and unplanned, but he could not control his desperate need to save the boys, his boy, his son. Vaulting the backstairs, two at a time, he dashed along the corridor and wrenched open the door to the only room that exhibited light, his sword drawn.
Taken by surprise, Anaïs jumped upright, screeching in distress.
Simon swung his weapon towards Robiérre, the blade striking the top of a high-backed chair that the Frenchman ducked behind. Simon kicked out at the leg, toppling the seat, but Robiérre was nimble and recovered quickly. He drew a dagger and snatched Jean Petit from the cradle by the fire, pressing the tip of the weapon into the little boy’s cheek.
‘One more step and I will drive this right through his skull.’
Simon stood motionless, his weapon raised. ‘Only a coward uses a child as a shield.’
‘You think you can dissuade my actions with insults, Wexford?’ Robiérre laughed. ‘It is Lord Wexford, is it not?’
Simon nodded. A small bead of sweat ran from his brow down his cheek. He had made a very stupid mistake.
‘Drop your weapon and take a seat. I think it is time for you and me to have a little talk.’ Robiérre dug the dagger harder into Jean Petiti’s face and the little boy let out a loud shriek as a droplet of blood appeared on the blade.
Simon immediately placed his sword on the table, righted the chair and sat down. ‘If you harm that child I will see to it that you roast in the fires of hell for eternity.’
‘I think not, for God forgives sinners and when my time comes, I will be so sorry.’
‘Then what do you want?’
‘You are a rich man and, as you point out, I shall need to buy my way into Heaven. What can you offer?’
Simon removed a bag of coins from his doublet. ‘Perhaps this will help.’
Anaïs snatched the pouch from Simon’s hand, her eyes glistening. ‘This is a pittance,’ she declared as she estimated the weight of the purse.
‘You always were a greedy, spiteful woman,’ Simon replied venomously.
‘It is not about money you stupid, old man,’ she ranted. ‘I want vengeance. I want retribution and I want your saintly, young wife to pay. Not like her sister, the whore, who danced with delight as her skin was burned away by the flames of the pyre. Oh no, I am going to make C
atherine bleed.’
Cécile stared down at the crossbow. Just knowing one twitch of the boy’s hand on the lever could embed an arrow in her chest had the blood coursing through her veins so fast, she felt faint.
‘Whoa, lad. Steady there.’ Gabriel slid in front of Cécile and a look of confusion swept over the boy’s face. ‘You do not want to do this. Lower the weapon and we shall talk. None of us will move until you say so.’
The lad opened his mouth to speak but he sank to the floor, unconscious. As he fell the crossbow was snatched from his keeping by Griffith, his left hand curling around the stock, his thumb preventing the lever from firing. He twirled his dagger and slipped it back into his belt.
Minette rushed into the chamber. ‘Milady!’
Cécile collapsed into a chair. ‘I’m fine,’ she declared to her maid even though her legs were shaking so much she could no longer stand.
Gabriel lifted the boy from the stone tiles and laid him on the bed. Gillet threw the contents of the bedside jug into the lad’s face and he sat up, spluttering as everyone gathered around.
He looked one from one angry countenance to another timidly. ‘I would not have loosened the arrow,’ he whispered.
‘We’ll never know, will we?’ retorted Gillet. ‘What’s your name, boy?’
‘Henri,’ he answered. ‘Henri d’Argentan. Are you going to kill me?’
Cécile flew to the side of the bed and fell to her knees. ‘Henri?’ She looked at Gillet in horror. ‘
The brightly burning candles cast a shimmering light over the table as the newly-appointed Bellegarde servants brought out the dishes from the kitchen. Armand ended his story and the resounding laughter which echoed in the room was proof that grieving hearts were slowly healing.
Mouse hailed another salute and tankards cheerfully rose into the air. Minette sat beside Griffith, aglow with the news that Gillet had commissioned a cottage to be built for them within the Bellegarde grounds. Griffith had requested it close to the stable so he could be near his father, but Llewellyn had scoffed at the idea, insisting he was in perfect health – the best he crowed – that he’d ever been. The heat in France from the season just gone had warmed his bones like never before in Chilham and the wonderful breeds of horses had his cup not just brimming, but overflowing. In the new stables, built as promised by the Vicomtesse, Llewellyn reigned over his domain with a contented hand. Trefor, his youngest son, also employed as Cécile’s page, sent to Bellegarde in disgrace for taking Cécile’s cats to Gisors, had sprouted like a spring vegetable over the summer months. He’d taken an immediate shine to the shy Henri d’Argentan, the boys being of a similar age, and they would oft be spotted sword practicing or racing the barrel.
After the attack on Moncontour, Henri had joined Mouse and taken the trail north. First they called upon Gisors where Henri delivered a letter from Gillet de Bellegarde.
The Vicomtesse read it and with a heavy sigh, nodded. ‘Tell Lord de Bellegarde I am still his friend should he be in need of one.’
Henri then requested leave from the service of the Vicomtesse. He wished to join the Bellegarde company as a page, he bravely informed her. The former Queen Consort, Blanche d’Évreux, agreed and released him into Mouse’s custody.
Then they’d made the sad trip to Beaumont-sur-Oise, to deliver the eviscerated body of Gabriel, carefully embalmed and wrapped for the journey by the Moncontour monks. They’d laid him in a cart strewn with flowers but Mouse had personally carried the clay jar encasing the honeyed entrails in his arms.
‘I nursed him all the way home,’ he told Gabriel’s parents. He held Gabriel’s sister, Emily, as she wept. Before he left, Martin de Brie, following his young charge’s example, summoned his courage and asked for permission to marry Emily de Beaumont de l’Oise, promising to name their firstborn for Gabriel. The family had warmly accepted his troth.
Gillet and Cécile, Griffith, Minette and Odette departed Moncontour soon after Mouse and Henri, bound for the much shorter route that would take them to Bellegarde. The fifty-four leagues was still a long and difficult journey, made harder by the heavy hearts. At Blois they delivered a message from Jean to his father and, when the Comte heard of their tribulations, he persuaded them to stay and rest for a couple of days. Then they tracked to Orléans and finally, Bellegarde, arriving mid-afternoon towards the second week in August.
Cécile reined in beside Gillet as they emerged from the Loire forest. Over the flatter landscape, they could see the pink stone of the turrets on the keep and the tiles on the new stables twinkled in the sunlight.
‘I gave no leave for any construction,’ muttered Gillet, staring out in disbelief at the handsome set of buildings. The Vicomtesse had included a dovecote.
‘Welcome home, husband.’ Cécile grinned up at him. ‘It is my gift to you, to us, to our life together, so you can breed the finest horses fit for kings.’
‘But how?’ spluttered Gillet, nudging Inferno into a walk again.
‘Aah,’ purred Cécile, prodding Ruby. ‘You know the saying. Never look a gift horse in the mouth.’
Veronique suffered the blow of Marguerite’s loss bravely and attached herself firmly to Odette who was immediately at home in the keep’s large kitchen. It was a happy time for Cécile when she was reunited with her horse, Starlight, and her cats, Gillet’s gifts to her in Chilham. Cinnamon purred around her legs, weaving in and out and even Nutmeg consented to allow Gillet to pat him without retaliation. Trefor put his finger to his lips and squeaked open the larder door. A burst of plaintive mewing was heard and Cinnamon raced to the basket.
‘Kittens!’ squealed Cécile, picking up a tiny ball of fur. It fit into the palm of her hand.
‘That’s the second litter, Milady,’ informed Trefor. ‘She also gave birth just after we arrived here. Most have been given homes but a couple still reside outside.’
‘Hmm,’ murmured Gillet, picking up a set of kitchen shears. ‘At that rate, I shall have to consider Nutmeg’s options.’
‘Gillet!’ scolded Cécile, covering Nutmeg’s ears.
By the end of August another summer storm brought driving rain and cracks of thunder so loud, they threatened to topple the keep. Everyone who could not attend their duties because of the weather had gathered in the hall to help whitewash the walls. The women were busy taking stock of the new linen. From her position mounted halfway up a ladder, Cécile was handing down a bundle of sheets to Minette when she looked out the oil-skinned window. Even through the distortion, she could make out a figure struggling against the elements.
‘Oh, the poor, old man,’ she told her maid-companion. ‘He can barely stand and his wife on the horse fares no better.’ She began to dismount when she slipped on the staves, her attention riveted by the figure.
‘Milady,’ inquired Minette. ‘Did you hurt yourself?’
Next Cécile was sliding down the ladder at full pelt and with a cry she flung open the door and dived headlong into the pouring rain. ‘Armand!’ she screamed, her voice not totally lost against the clash of the storm.
‘Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ railed Gillet, dropping the paintbrush. He flung Mouse a horrified look. ‘What if he does not have the child? I should have greeted him first!’ Both of them ran outside as fast as they could and arrived just as Armand, despite the rain, pushed back his hood.
‘Canna a man no get inside foist?’ he jested in his worst Scottish brogue, but produced from beneath his cloak the bundle for which Cécile craved.
She swept the rugged-up child into her arms and covered the baby’s face with kisses.
Rudely roused from his sleep, pelted by cold rain and smothered in affection, Jean Petit opened up his mouth and wailed with all his might.
‘Now there’s a sound I missed.’ Gillet laughed, his arm guiding his soaked, besotted wife back indoors. It was then they noticed the woman on the horse. Armand helped her dismount and she curtseyed, a noble feat in the blustery wind.
‘I’d like to i
ntroduce you to Tiphanie de Carmaux,’ said Armand. ‘My betrothed.’
Life at Bellegarde was beginning to take shape. When Gillet’s name day arrived on the eighth day of September, Cécile could not believe it had been a twelvemonth since the auction in Kent where she had purchased his horse, Goblin. And yet, in another sense, she felt as though she had just lived two lifetimes! The couple spent the day on a pique-nique together, down by the river. The change of season was imminent, the weather at last cooling.
The gathering of winter stores began and Gillet, Armand, Mouse and Griffith went hunting almost every day in the large expanse of the Loire forest. They returned filthy, spattered with mud and blood, both animal and their own. But more importantly, they came back laughing.
Cécile knew the pain still existed for all of them but to honour their companion’s wonderful zest for life, they chose to move on. Gabriel would want that.
The evenings became a time for games and storytelling once more as they gathered around the hearth in the hall. Cécile nursed Jean-Petit and gave him a bone to gnaw; he had six teeth now. Griffith and Minette cuddled by the fire and Odette and Veronique busied themselves stitching baby clothes with pointed looks at Minette. Henri and Trefor sat cross-legged upon the floor and gazed up in open-mouthed awe as the men regaled them with tales of folklore. Armand also told stories of his trip to Scotland and how he met Tiphanie.
To Armand’s great relief, Cécile had taken an instant liking to his affianced, and the planning of a spring wedding had given the women new spirit. Secretly Cécile nursed the belief that it was Gabriel’s last gift to her. When she offered her conviction to Gillet in bed later that night, his eyebrows raised but he did not dismiss the notion.
‘Well,’ he drawled, peeling the chemise from Cécile’s shoulder and kissing the soft skin, ‘what were the odds on Armand returning betrothed? Lift up your arms.’ She obeyed and he pulled the garment over her head. ‘I guess it depends upon when he made the decision to marry.’ Gillet pressed his lips to her neck and nipped at her pulse. He kissed a trail down to her breasts – his domain again now that Jean Petit was fully weaned.
The Gilded Crown Page 35
