‘Forgive the disorder. I was not expecting royalty.’ He retrieved his cup, swallowing the contents in one gulp, and wiped his mouth with a vicious swing of his sleeve.
‘I apologise for disturbing you, Monsieur. I can see that you are extremely busy.’ Arching one eyebrow, I watched, faintly amused as he re-filled his cup. With irritation he wrenched his unbuttoned sleeve up to his elbow. The ties at his neck were loosened, tiny dark curls visible beneath, and the sleek fit of his padded leather chausses brought an unexpected blush to my face.
‘Another half hour and you could have inspected my braies as well. Do I pass your scrutiny, Demoiselle?’ His lip curled sardonically and he slammed his goblet down. ‘In God’s name, woman, what do you want? Do you not have somewhere else to be? Edward’s bed, mayhap? Go warm the sheets and leave me be.’
‘How dare you!’
My wine-induced courage fled beneath his demonic stare as he spun around and towered over me.
‘Oh, I dare!’ His eyes fell to the jewels lacing my throat. ‘You should have told me at the palace that your whoring price was rubies. I could have brought you a fistful, and better than these.’
‘You ale-swilling dung heap! Son of a pig farmer!’ My arm swung into the air with the intent of rendering punishment for his insolence, but the courier easily captured my wrist. Wincing at his savage grip, I beat at his chest and underneath his shirt I could feel his heart galloping like a wild beast. His eyes were cold and hard and, dropping my hand, he brushed away my other as if touching me disgusted him.
‘You despicable creature!’ I hissed. ‘You are not fit to wipe my boots!’
To my dismay he laughed, a horrible, bitter sound. He raised his cup in salute. ‘Lady, I would sooner wipe the arse of an elephant!’
Stunned, I stumbled back a pace. ‘Do I know you, Sir, that you should smite me in such a contemptible manner? Have I done you some ill in a past life?’
His cup crashed down upon the chest. ‘No, thank God!’ He spun to face me. ‘Those blood stones hanging off your neck speak for themselves.’ He took a menacing step. ‘As far as I was aware Armagnac decided against allying with England, let alone lying with them, so why, for Christ’s sake, are you bedding its royal son?’
‘What are you talking about?’
He raised one eyebrow. ‘Does Comte d’Armagnac know that his precious daughter is the latest conquest of the Prince of Wales?’
Fed up with his taunting I stamped my foot and shrieked, ‘I am not …’ A thunderbolt from a clear sky could not have struck with more surprise. ‘The what?’ I gasped, my palm at my throat. ‘He said his name was Édouard Stock.’
The courier snorted. ‘Were you standing with the donkeys when the good Lord blessed His creatures with intelligence? Maybe you could use a pair of ass’ ears, for then you would have heard his name correctly!’ His arm shot out, pointing towards the door. ‘Edward… of… Woodstock! The darling of Crécy, the hero of Poitiers, son of King Edward III of England! I have no doubt Armagnac wanted royalty for his “little Princess” but I do not believe he had The Black Prince in mind. Jesu, you must be laughing up your plaguey sleeve at Jean de Berri! But what really claws at my gut is the careless regard you have for your sister, for where else would Salisbury be but at his master’s side? ’Tis a wonder I did not see him suckling your other teat!’
‘You whoreson!’ Blackness swirled before my eyes and I felt myself falling.
‘Oh, Christ.’
I awoke to the feel of my cheeks being patted like bread dough and the cold metal of a goblet at my lips. The wine seared my throat and I sat up, coughing. I stared into eyes dark as jet. The blurred face around them shifted into focus, handsome, wholesome and angry.
‘I would have used a burned feather,’ its owner quipped coldly, ‘but the only one I possess is my quill and forgive me if I prefer to keep it for a more useful purpose.’
Staring around the room, vague shapes became clearer and memory drifted back. It was the courier’s room. And the courier’s bed!
Scrambling upright, I hoped that Odette would be able to fold the badly crushed gown into some semblance of respectability. Would that I might do the same for my dignity. ‘I suppose I should thank you, Sir, for not letting my head hit the floor. ’Tis as plain as the nose on your face that you hold little regard for me.’
‘I see the mouth still works. But you are right. I try not to hold anything of Edward’s.’
‘I am not,’ I began but he wasn’t listening. Drawn to the shutters by a clatter of hooves, he hissed between clenched teeth.
‘God’s nails! The Prince has returned.’ He spun around quickly. ‘Go! My neck is already evading one noose on account of you.’
The image of a black horse charging down an alley, the rider drawing sword and dagger to save me, rose like a ghost from its grave on All Hallows’ Eve. I had forgotten the bravery that earned him a price on his head. ‘But, Monsieur, you do not understand …’
‘Here, I suspect this is what you came for. Now go quickly, for both our sakes.’ A folded parchment with dirty edges and stitched on one side was thrust into my hands.
‘Please, Monsieur, at least hear me out.’ Inexplicably, tears sprang to my eyes and with a heavy sigh he lowered his shield of resentment.
‘You are right, Lady d’Armagnac, I do not understand, so forgive me.’ With the strength of Samson, he pulled me into his arms and his mouth swept down on mine. If I thought I had been struck by a thunderbolt once that night, then in his violent kiss I found the fury of the ensuing storm. His lips scorched mine, brutally forcing them apart, his tongue demanding. Behind the potency was a passion that left me breathless. Then like a searing flash of lightning it was over and I was pushed ignobly from the room.
My cheeks were flaming and I laid my cool palms against them, inanely staring at his door, unable to find both breath and reason for his unprovoked assault. A creak sounded in the hallway and quickly I fled to my chamber. Safe within the confines of my room I threw myself upon the bed, wantonly comparing my first two lovers’ kisses, both possessive but one playful and enticing, the other forceful and desperate. It was obvious that Monsieur de Bellegarde no longer considered it necessary to remove me from this inn. My hand strayed to the rubies at my throat. But I could not remain. Edward of Woodstock was my father’s enemy! How in heaven’s name had I placed myself in such a precarious situation?
The answer was simple. I had not. Monsieur de Bellegarde’s refusal to return me to the palace had caused this plight. Surely then, he had an obligation to fulfil. I must therefore press my case before him, and by the following evening.
With the familiarity that had grown between us, Odette sank onto the stool in my chamber the next morning, her face illuminated. I observed with a sinking heart my note still in her possession. ‘Ooh … he is so fair of face.’ Eyes sprinkled with faerie dust caught mine. ‘God has given him grace but, Sacré Cœur, it is not right that one man should be so pleasing to the eye!’
Directing my look of disgust pointedly to her hand, Odette’s feet came back to earth.
‘He was just leaving on an errand. I had to run to catch him as it was.’ Her arm extended my invitation. ‘He said he would try to find a convenient moment to collect your letter before he departs.’
‘Why did you not give him this?’ I held up my morning’s labour, the note pleading an audience and my only chance to set my world to rights.
‘Zut! His black monster of a horse was snorting like a devil and stomping grain into flour. I was too scared to get closer. But I did manage to return Madame’s dress. She will never know.’
My tight smile of thanks was less than Odette deserved, but she hardly noticed as she floated away on borrowed wings.
Thankfully left to my own devices I have spent the day labouring over this letter which now I must finish with all speed.
Odette returned mid-afternoon, bearing a tray and news that my presence was required in the parlour. Fleet of foo
t and thinking my prayers answered, I ran downstairs to discover it was Edward who summoned me. I sank into a deep curtsey as his manservant was dismissed, the sound of the wooden rings dragging the curtain across the rail grating on my overset nerves.
‘Your Highness?’ I offered pragmatically.
Edward leaned back in the chair, hands flat upon the parchments littering the table, his expression guarded. ‘Ah, Lady d’Armagnac. I see that you have learned my identity. Our mutual courier, no doubt. No matter.’ Permission was given to rise by a curt nod. ‘You are quite an enigma, Lady.’ His fingers curled around two documents. ‘And I find my curiosity undeniably piqued.’ His left hand rose in the air, shaking its contents. ‘Here I have received, only today, word from one of my subjects, My Lord of Salisbury.’ His arm fell to the table but his other rose in its place. ‘And here, a dispatch from the authorities of Paris, signed by a Monsieur Lunoir.’ His eyes snapped to mine. ‘Interestingly, both these missives concern you.’ The Prince regarded the letters, his tone playing with sarcasm like a cat toys with a mouse. My stomach rolled. ‘It would seem that my courier has placed himself in a predicament,’ he said with a forced laugh of amazement, ‘thwarting attempts by one of my most loyal knights. You have my court in disarray, Mademoiselle!’
The Prince perched himself upon the corner of the table and, folding his arms, cocked one eyebrow. ‘The Dauphin, by all accounts, is also searching for you.’ His hands shot into the air. ‘And yet here I find you dressed as a maid at an inn, the jewel in Armagnac’s crown. But wait!’ He made a great play of shuffling through the leaflets, extracting the uppermost with feigned bravado. ‘It seems that Lord William has stumbled across something.’ His eyes rolled over the vellum, a nail stroking his top lip before he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Here!’ Warrior fingers slapped the evidence. ‘A waif at Denny Abbey has a sister.’ He turned to glare at me. ‘One Cécile d’Armagnac.’
Clothed in riding attire, the cyclas conspicuous in the motley colours of England, the golden lions on his chest regarded me as fiercely as their master. I felt like a trapped doe, waiting for them to spring and rip out my throat.
‘Now I ask you, Lady, what am I to do?’
I collapsed onto a nearby stool, all hope of escape evaporating as surely as dawn’s dew under the morning sun. ‘May it please you to send me to my father?’
Silence ensued, the moments dragging on.
‘No, that does not please me. Since I cannot hold your virtue to ransom, Comte d’Armagnac may not appreciate me sending him soiled goods.’ At my gasp, he added with a tight smile, ‘I watched you leave Bellegarde’s room last night, Mademoiselle. Never has a maid looked more tumbled and, trust me, I have seen a few. If you were so desirous of company you had but to await my return. I could have finished what I started.’
Were it not for my helplessness, the incongruity of this could have made me laugh outright. Master Courier breathed flames like a dragon for thinking me Edward’s mistress, and now the Prince of Wales was like a sulky child deprived of his favourite toy. Fed up with being tossed like a ball between them, I stood. ‘Then send me back to the Dauphin and I will answer to him for my honour.’
The boards creaked under the weight of his steps and Edward clamped my shoulders in his grasp, the gentle breeze of his breath ruffling wisps of my hair. I wondered if he could feel me trembling. ‘Ah yes, there are the Princes to assuage. But, Lady, just as you consider yourself a subject of the Dauphin, your sister is one of mine.’
I blinked up at him, slow to understand. His smile, which I had at first thought perfect, now appeared dangerous as his knuckles lightly brushed against my cheek.
‘I could have her located and brought to my bed in place of that which I have missed.’
My heart raced in panic.
‘And my courier,’ Edward mockingly shrugged, ‘he must be punished for his interference.’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’
Edward cocked his eyebrow. ‘Oh, but I would. You must have heard the stories about me. The French revel in them. I’m a brute with no thought of consequence, a havoc-wreaker, laying waste to the countryside and its maidens, taking what I want. Who am I to prove the stories false? Would you know your countrymen for liars?’
I went cold as his tone became more threatening, his fingers dangling around my throat.
‘And I have heard the Parisian executioner has a fine hand for fair faces and the Constable, Monsieur Lunoir, will be only too glad to receive word of my courier.’ He tilted my chin, his eyes glittering. ‘Or you could save everyone a considerable amount of trouble and become my mistress.’
If I thought our executioner could teach Monsieur de Bellegarde some manners, I would hire the delivery conveyance myself, but in truth not many leave that butcher’s attendance alive and I will not suffer that upon my conscience. Neither can I let you, one of God’s own, be taken in my stead. This mischief is of my making and so I must accept the consequences. My deepest regret is the shame I bring upon my Papa, for my future is now compromised. He always told me the purity that a woman brings to her marriage is the sweetest of God’s gifts. No husband of mine will ever know such a blessing. And what man will want such royally soiled goods?
With the completion of this letter, I shall write to my Papa and beg his forgiveness and understanding. Odette will see both consignments slid beneath the courier’s door this evening. Then the Prince of Wales will be informed of my decision. When an opportunity presents itself, I shall escape.
If my innocence must be taken, then I have some small satisfaction in knowing it will not be entirely in vain. Monsieur de Bellegarde will have time to escape this vile threat and you, Catherine, will be safe from harm. Therein lay my punishment, for I risk losing contact with you, and for the first time I realise just how much I shall miss it.
God keep you safe, Mary Catherine, with His love and mine. I shall pray that we may meet again some day. I raise my cup in salute to the irony of it all. In accepting my fate, tonight I shall become the whore that Monsieur de Bellegarde already believed me to be.
Written by Cécile d’Armagnac, Thorn and Thistle Inn , Paris, Feast of Saint George, 23 April 10 Jean II.
Damn the Prince. Gillet de Bellegarde angrily thrust his foot into his boot. He filled his goblet and drained it. This was not the first time but by God’s Holy Rood it would be the last! He picked up his goose-feather quill and stroked the plume, his eyes glazing. Memories stirred of auburn-red hair, aquamarine eyes, widening innocently as he’d lowered her to the hay. A tiny feather, shed by the resident birds, had caught amongst her curls and fluttered in dance with his breath upon her cheek. Her laughter had delighted him, but she’d tensed like a doe about to take flight. He’d promised patience. She promised nothing. He’d almost allowed himself to lose his heart. Then Edward of Woodstock had stolen her kisses and her maidenhead. Gillet uncurled his fist to reveal the crushed fledge that was his pen.
Relinquishing that perfumed beauty to Edward had not ended their friendship. Nor had her successors. Another affair had, a thorn driven so deeply into his skin that, at times, it still ached. No. He would not think upon it now. His eyes fell to his satchel containing the Prince’s dispatches, where beneath them an ingeniously double-stitched compartment concealed another letter. One that carried a wax imprint of two knights astride a single horse. Jesu! He wiped his moist brow. How much longer must he play fiddle to more than one bow? And now this. Once again, the Prince had stolen something precious from him for his own amusement, knowing full well the sting it would inflict. He shoved the crumpled feather into his pouch and stooped to pick up his bag. By Christ, this would be the last time.
To my well beloved sister, Cécile d’Armagnac, in good grace.
I do not recall a time that I ever had the opportunity to sit and talk to a stranger. Every person in my life has been known to me. My memories are filled with faces that never changed. But I was not close to any one person. Lady Mary was my benefactor, Sister Anne,
the Abbess, Sister Bridget, my tutor, but I knew nothing about them. I was expected to listen and not to express my own opinions. I doubt I would ever have questioned this, but for Simon Marshall, Lord Wexford.
I planned to remain in my room, avoiding him at all cost. He, on the other hand, seemed determined to thwart me. Thinking to arrange with the maid to bring a tray of victuals to enjoy privately, I was stunned when told that Lord Wexford had prohibited such behaviour. Is the man privy to my thoughts?
I went without refreshments on the first day but my nagging hunger eventually wore me down, particularly when the staff, most deliberately I believe, allowed the smell of hot pottage to waft beneath my door.
Covering my head with a borrowed veil, I ventured into the common room.
He was eating alone and, concentrating on the task, ignored my arrival. The table had been arranged in such a way that I was forced to sit opposite him, yet still he did not look up. Taking the ladle, he deftly filled a bowl and slid it towards me, adding a hunk of bread he had detached from the loaf.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered.
‘You are most welcome.’ His voice was deep yet musical and rolled comfortably from him. I fingered my spoon, self-conscious of every movement I made. ‘You must be hungry.’
‘Yes, M’lord.’
‘What are you waiting for?’
‘Grace, M’lord.’
‘Well then, say it if you must,’ he added before continuing to sup.
I lifted my gaze and met his. He certainly was gruff. His spoon wavered momentarily, then dropped into the half-finished bowl.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he swore.
‘Dear Lord,’ I began, my hands clasped and head bowed, ‘bless this meal and the goodness it provides. Bless each and every hand that worked to produce it, from the gardener to the cook. May it bring sustenance and …’
‘Keep you and me from starving. Amen.’ He reclaimed his spoon and continued to eat, this time without peering at me.
The Lily and the Lion Page 6
