The Lily and the Lion

by Catherine A. Wilson

  My relief was enormous but short-lived.

  ‘I saw her first!’ My attacker rose to his feet and, in one movement swiped the blood from his mouth and pulled a knife. An ominous murmur rippled through the crowd and as one, like a receding tide, they drew back. I tripped into the open arms of my astonished cousin, he absurdly mimicking the courier.

  ‘Mon Dieu. Cécile! In the name of Saint Michel, what are you doing here?’

  ‘You have made a mistake,’ Gillet was saying, his palm held outwards to stave off the attack. ‘She is not one of Henri’s.’

  ‘The hell she ain’t! She’s here, ain’t she? If you want her, you’ll have to fight me for her.’

  With a predatory grin Gillet swiftly drew his dagger. ‘My pleasure.’

  Tables and stools were hastily removed, the crowd urging them on and some even placing bets. The man hawked and spat and they began to circle, one slashing and the other dodging. The man lunged, narrowly missing Gillet’s shoulder. My guardian leaped sideways, but the other spun swiftly and lunged again. It was over in a moment more. The attacker hacked his blade at Gillet’s knife arm, but one ale too many had made him unsteady and he overextended his reach. Gillet ripped his blade across his opponent’s forearm. Blood spurted and the man screamed, grabbing the wound as his weapon dropped to the rushes.

  Gillet pointed his blade at the man’s throat. ‘Yield!’ The room had fallen eerily silent. ‘Yield.’

  The man fell to his knees, gasping. ‘I yield.’

  Satisfied, Gillet sheathed his knife. A scuffle broke the crowd apart and a stool smashed across his back. Gillet stumbled.

  ‘Merde!’ Armand hurdled the tables, seized a stout piece of splintered wood, and whacked it into his victim’s stomach. The room became a wild flurry of limbs and, amongst them, I recognised some of our soldiers.

  Yet another companion of the yielded man took up the fallen dagger. He charged at Gillet with a roar. They both tumbled to the ground, rolling over and over as each struggled for victory. Finally Gillet emerged on top. He straddled his opponent and, without hesitation, plunged the dagger in to the hilt. A darkening red stain was rapidly spreading over his own shirt. A huge fist connected with his jaw and sent him sprawling backwards. He dived for his opponent’s knees and tackled him to the floor. Armand was similarly entangled, rolling amidst shards of shattered ale jugs. With a final swing, he rose steadily, wiping his mouth, only to be slammed into the tables. They crashed over, but my cousin pushed away the arms that helped him and flung himself back into the fray. Gillet punched another man unconscious, his shirt now a sodden red mess.

  Unable to watch any further, I fled to the door, gasping for air as though my lungs had been pressed into a vice. The image of Gillet’s bloodied chest haunted me. If either one of them should be …

  Dizzy, I collapsed against the hitching post. The crowd was beginning to spill out into the street but they were dispersing. It was over. They staggered down the road, some leaning against others, moaning, and some still shouting ribald curses. I sat huddled, shivering convulsively. The terrible fear would not leave me. These were not the games we played as children when Armand or Jean le Bossu had fought for me. Gillet had killed a man.

  This was real.

  My heart jumped suddenly at the sound of his voice. He stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the candlelight, his movements stiff and awkward as a young woman helped him into his doublet.

  ‘You should let me take care of that,’ she cooed, tugging at him.

  ‘It’s naught but a scratch.’

  A man pushed through the door, forcing them apart. Gillet’s eyes fell on Ruby and then my shadowed outline.

  ‘Must you go?’ the girl pouted. ‘It’s only early yet. I can clean you up.’ She tried again to pull him inside.

  ‘No,’ he said firmly, staring at me. ‘I am needed elsewhere.’

  Armand stepped through the portal, nodded at her and tossed Gillet his cloak and sword as he donned his own. The girl sighed and reached behind to grab another garment.

  ‘Here,’ she handed it to Gillet. ‘I believe this belongs to your “elsewhere.” She lost it earlier. You really should keep your pet lambs penned, Gillet, if you don’t want them straying into the slaughterhouse.’ She blew him a kiss and disappeared inside.

  ‘Cécile!’ Armand helped me to my feet. ‘Sweetheart, you are the colour of ashes and you’re trembling.’ A young boy led Panache, Armand’s horse, and Inferno around the corner.

  Gillet draped my cloak around me. ‘We should go,’ he said flatly.

  With a nod of understanding Armand cupped his hands for my foot but as I was halfway to mounting Ruby, he suddenly let me go.

  ‘Aagh! Broken ribs,’ he wheezed, clutching his chest and wincing in pain.

  Another pair of strong hands encircled my waist and before I knew it, I was lifted bodily into the saddle. I turned to thank my rescuer.

  ‘No!’ Gillet cut me off. ‘Do not deign to speak. Tomorrow will be soon enough for us to hear your frail excuses for this night’s work.’

  We rode back to our lodging in deathly silence.

  At the inn Gillet and Armand enlisted the aid of Madame Duvall. Within my chamber, I listened to the muffled noises in the next room. I was filled with a terrible nothingness, an icy void empty of emotion as though I was too afraid to let myself feel. Sinking to my haunches in the corner, I rested my forehead on my arms and listened. Armand was talking but it was a low buzz, an indeterminable murmur interrupted by hissing from Gillet as his wound was stitched. After the next hour bell had tolled the sounds in the adjoining chamber fell silent and my door opened. The gentle glow from a candle lit up my room.

  ‘I came to see how you fare.’ Madame Duvall took one look at me crouching in the corner and set her taper down. ‘Oh, child,’ she exclaimed softly, ‘Come here, love.’

  I sprang into her open arms and burst into tears, sobbing as though my heart would break.

  ‘You silly lambkin!’

  23 July

  After delivering my gift of a needle-basket, full of coloured cottons, to Madame Duvall the next morning, I tiptoed into Armand’s room to find him awake. He painfully dragged himself up against the bolster and I rearranged the cushions to allow him to sit more comfortably.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Two or more broken ribs,’ he replied with a wry smile, ‘and too many bruises to count.’ His hand alighted on mine. ‘What about you?’

  I placed a leather folder onto his lap. ‘My bruises don’t show.’

  ‘What’s this?’ He picked up the folder, one eyebrow lifting.

  ‘It’s a journal of humorous stories. I thought you would enjoy them. How is Gillet?’

  Armand’s compassionate grin was almost my undoing. ‘Why not ask him for yourself, cherié?’

  When I had gathered enough courage to enter Gillet’s room, it was only to find him still fast asleep. I dragged a stool to his bedside and brushed a stray lock from his brow. He slept peacefully, despite the rich assortment of rainbow colours ripening his skin. His lip was badly swollen on one side, the mangled flesh crusted with dried blood. He looked so broken and beaten. This was entirely my fault. Fresh tears welled and I buried my head into the coverlet and wept quietly.

  ‘Am I dead, that I should find an angel crying at my bedside?’

  Eyes the colour of onyx blinked understanding and remorse flooded my soul. ‘Gillet, I am so sorry.’

  He smiled crookedly and wiped the wetness from my cheek. ‘So there is a kitten beneath those sharp claws.’ I placed my gift before him. ‘What’s this?’ A frown replaced the smile.

  ‘My frail excuse.’

  He uncovered the bejewelled dagger and half his mouth grinned. ‘Are you sure you want to put this in my hands just now?’ His eye caught the workmanship and he studied it more closely. ‘This has exquisite crafting and is valuable. Where did you get the coin?’

  To avoid his gaze, I rose and poured a goblet of water. �
�I sold some needlework.’ Even my sensibilities shuddered at the stretching of this truth. He took the cup I held out, looking far from convinced. ‘Does it please you? It is to remind you of France when you return to England.’

  Gillet exhaled a long breath and stared at the fleurs de lys engraved between the stones. ‘Thank you, Cécile.’

  He took a gulp of water, swallowing with discomfort. ‘You make it difficult, Lady, for me to administer the tongue-lashing you deserve. Do you realise how foolish you were to go out unescorted?’

  ‘Oui. And I am sick at heart for the trouble it caused. Because of me, a man is dead.’

  ‘No. For that you are not to blame,’ he said gently. ‘His friend had yielded and there it should have ended. His death was of his own making.’

  ‘Then if I am to be absolved for that, is it too late to ask for another truce?’

  ‘Lady, we do seem to be constantly at war,’ He picked up a lock of my hair and let it slide through his fingers. ‘But then, what is war if not a succession of truces?’ He caught my chin and leaned forward. ‘A kiss of peace in honour of our treaty.’ A knock sounded at the door and I shifted quickly as Madame Duvall entered, two servants carrying a tub and buckets in her wake.

  She surveyed us with pouting disapproval. ‘The maid is soaking your shirt, Monsieur de Bellegarde. ’Twill require some deft stitching to see it serviceable again, but for now I would have you wash the dried blood from your skin. Out you go, Mademoiselle. This is no place for you.’

  Gillet winked mischievously. ‘You could stay and sponge my back,’ he whispered. The sudden image of him in a bath sent a vivid flush to my face. His grin was roguish. ‘I understand that Cécile’s needlework can fetch a good price, Madame. Perhaps she will undertake to repair my shirt.’

  24 July

  A physician has visited Armand and strapped his ribs with stiff binding, leaving instructions that he should remain in bed for at least five days. For my disobedience, my penance was to play nursemaid and cater to every silly whim he and Gillet could contrive. I am sure it amuses them but my patience grows short. This morning’s impossible task had been to shave Armand.

  ‘Ouch! Céci, are you trying to slit my throat?’

  ‘Do not tempt me! It would be easier to peel an apple with an axe. Keep still!’ I grabbed a cloth to staunch the bleeding wound. There were three more just like it and the task was but half completed.

  Gillet sat on the end of the bed, reading Armand’s journal, chortling at both the stories and my efforts. Armand cut loose with another howl and I threw the blade into the bowl. ‘Oh, why do you not just grow a beard!’

  Gillet’s chuckles grew louder until he was laughing outright. Armand joined him but grasped his side in agony. I threw my cloth onto the bed. ‘I am done playing your court jester. Shave yourself and go hang!’

  Armand’s gaiety subsided amongst groans of helplessness. ‘At least I’d leave myself with a neck by which to be hung! Oh, oh, sweetheart,’ he squealed, ‘first the journal, now this.’

  ‘What? What is wrong with the journal? I was assured they were funny stories.’

  Gillet chuckled and placed L’objet de Question on the end of the bed and moved to fill the position I had just vacated. ‘You have never broken a rib, have you, Cécile?’ He picked up the blade, rinsed it off and swiftly passed it under Armand’s chin. No blood. Several strokes later Armand sighed in bliss.

  ‘No, I have not.’

  ‘There was one story about a man who …’ began Armand but he grabbed his chest. ‘Oh, no, it is too funny, I cannot tell you.’

  Gillet laughed again. ‘Only you could give someone with three broken ribs a journal full of ridiculously silly anecdotes.’ He held out the bowl. ‘Cherub, it is the Devil’s own pain to laugh with one broken rib, let alone three, and you present your cousin with a journal full of jocularity.’ Taking the proffered dish, I prayed my trembling hands would not be noticed. Cherub? He stood and turned me to the door and playfully whacked my derrière. ‘Go, before you kill your cousin with kindness.’

  I took off down the stairs and into the courtyard at lightning speed. Emptying the dish, I sat on the well to catch my breath. Sacré bleu! Did the man have any idea what effect he could have on a woman?

  The exoneration bestowed upon me by my three travelling companions has let me see a new side to myself. I am sure they understand that there are fundamentals of my character which cannot be changed and they make their own adjustments accordingly, but for me something more happened. I began to realise that a careless deed, however well intended, can have serious consequences. It may put the people around me at risk, people for whom I have come to care. Armand says that I have more courage than any woman he has ever known but I know that there are times when it fails me miserably.

  My life has taken a different path from the one I believed was to be mine, and I have spent the last few weeks feeling so very angry and bitterly disappointed but the burden is mine alone. It is time for me to accept these changes and embrace the gifts God has laid before me. Dearest Catherine, of these gifts, you are one. I had not thought to let you into my heart but now I know that you have always been there. I did not embrace you as I should. Can you forgive me?

  Written by Cécile d’Armagnac, Auberge de Lys, Amiens, 24 July, one day before the Feast of Saint Christopher, 10 Jean II

  Cécile d’Armagnac was a leech. She had wormed her way beneath his skin and was sucking him dry. And … she had infused an insatiable fire into his blood. Gillet’s thumb stroked the blue sapphires in the hilt of his new dagger. They were the colour of her eyes. The moment he’d drawn his blade at the tavern, he’d felt a fierce possessiveness. The idea that he must protect her as though she belonged to him had been a heady mix and he liked it. No woman had ever made him feel that. It was as though he’d discovered what Simon had been trying to teach him for years – a sense of self-worth, his own true value. It had made him feel as though he counted. But Cécile d’Armagnac did not belong to him.

  He rolled the haft across his fingers, testing the weight and counterpoise. It was good craftsmanship. Would he balance so perfectly on her scales when she learned the truth? His thoughts divided and, like cantankerous oxen, pulled in two different directions. He chose the safer path. Armand had assured him that she possessed no skills in needlework, so from where had she obtained the coin for such a piece? Armand had also told him that Edward of Woodstock was angry, very angry.

  Sighing, he sheathed the weapon and turned to stare out the casement at the tall cathedral spire piercing the clouds. If only, two years ago, he had ridden directly to Larressingle, rather than resting at Saint Leu. Perhaps his life would not have careened out of control. Most men served God first, then King and country through their overlord. He had twice the number of kings, no country to call his own and God was not listening. A tiny sparrow flew past his window and alighted in the nearby tree. He was reminded of the time he had watched a wren building a palatial nest in a precarious position. A savage storm had struck one night and the next day he could see the tiny clutch of eggs exposed, threatening to fall. He had begun to climb the tree when a hand clamped upon his shoulder. ‘Leave it, lad,’ Simon had told him. ‘Interfere now and the birds will abandon it. At least this way they have a chance to repair their own handiwork and they will learn from their mistakes.’ God had not abandoned him, Gillet acknowledged. The Almighty was simply waiting for him to repair his own badly built nest.

  To my beloved sister be this delivered.

  You might be surprised to find me now on the road but rest assured, my dearest, I begin by promising you that, though our journey was most eventful, I am safe and well and remain within the protection and company of Lord Wexford.

  Without doubt you will recall that my last letter contained news that Lady Joan was our mother and Salisbury our father. This revelation came the same day that Anaïs was removed from my suite and hastily shifted to Lord Wexford’s personal bedchamber, he having move
d to the library as the remainder of the house is under repair. All afternoon I could hear Anaïs’ shrill complaints as she pranced around, declaring herself in a manner of such self-importance. I truly struggled to find charity and forgiveness in my heart. Horrified by my own reaction, I dedicated the afternoon to prayer but in my weakened state I instead fell into a deep sleep and did not wake until the following day. My stomach’s loud demand for nourishment made easy my decision to seek out the salon.

  I found Lord Wexford seated at the end of the long table, his chaturanga board laid out in front of him. I have watched him play this Eastern form of chess many times and know that he finds the game both challenging and calming.

  ‘Have you seen Anaïs since this morning?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ he grunted. ‘She graced me with her presence just one hour ago and I believe that she is now in her room, as I made it quite clear that I did not wish to converse with her.’

  ‘Has she angered you?’

  ‘I find the young woman to be nothing more than a conniving, manipulative wench. If not for Gillet, I would have thrown her into the street weeks ago. As it is I am forced to placate and fawn, which I am finding considerably taxing.’

  ‘I am genuinely sorry, Simon.’ My shy use of his first name caused me to blush, so I instantly dropped my gaze. ‘It is my fault that she is here in your home. I could have left her behind in Aylesbury, but for want of company I kept her with me. A mistake indeed!’

  ‘You were not to know.’ He repositioned one of the jade playing pieces on the board. ‘She is a bewitching woman, well-versed in deceit and dishonesty.’

  ‘Have you received any indication when Gillet might return?’

  ‘I am afraid I cannot answer you. I have no information at this point as to the whereabouts of Gillet or your sister, but do not fret, this is good news,’ he said. ‘If I do not know, then nor does anyone else.’