The Lily and the Lion

by Catherine A. Wilson

  ‘Bellegarde, eh?’ He burst out laughing. ‘We are old comrades.’

  ‘And this is my cousin, Cécile, from my mother’s side.’ Armand spoke articulately, and I wondered if the man might not be a little slow-witted. ‘Bellegarde and I have been commissioned by my uncle to see her delivered to Arras.’

  The eyes that drew me under careful scrutiny did not lack intelligence as they strayed to Gillet, then settled upon Armand, the owner scratching his head. ‘Ah, well, that explains why you disappeared.’ His gaze returned to me. ‘Lord Almighty! Where have you been hiding this beauty? Why does she look at me as though I were a cathedral and my tower bells are missing?’

  ‘Most likely it’s because you chime for no reason,’ spluttered Gabriel. ‘And don’t even think it! Your Bell-egarde has beaten us all!’

  ‘Damn your fair face, man!’ Mouse slammed his tankard upon the board. ‘Don’t women know that handsome is not everything?’ He leaned across the table, the potted candle between us rocking precariously. ‘The man may be hung like a horse, but you’d be better off riding a nice, well-fed pony like me! More to your size,’ he tugged his beard, ‘and you can hang onto the mane!’

  ‘I am very capable of riding stallions, as well as ladies’ palfreys,’ I retorted indignantly. ‘In fact, I enjoy a good gallop …’

  ‘Céci, stop,’ howled Armand, thumping the table. ‘Say no more for pity’s sake!’

  Gillet doubled over, holding his stomach as he tried to suppress his laughter. Gabriel tipped his cup, wiping his eyes. ‘Lady, your skills were never in doubt, I assure you.’ Blushing furiously, I realised this joke had been somewhat at my expense but tactfully the conversation moved forward.

  ‘We were just saying it is unlike you to miss the mêlée,’ said Gabriel.

  ‘Spit on my father’s grave!’ cursed Mouse. ‘Damned horse went lame on the way here. I heard you did well, though.’

  ‘Well enough until I twisted my plaguey ankle. I would still be moaning in my bed, except that Armand dragged me down here. Hoy there!’ He signalled the passing maid. ‘Another round, sweeting!’

  Many cups later, we were all revelling at the stories of Mouse and Gabriel. Apparently these two have somewhat of a colourful history together and neither of them seemed to mind reliving it for my benefit. Eventually I worked up the courage to ask Mouse how he had acquired such a fine name. He looked to Gillet as he swigged from his cup. ‘Tell her, man. You were there.’

  Gillet chuckled. ‘It was a long time ago, when this goodly knight was more inebriated than usual. He had some crazed idea that everyone was out to cut his purse. The only course of action, for our safety and his own, was to put him in a cell for the night. Unfortunately, he had to share his quarters. He was found in the morning, clinging to the rafters, whilst a little mouse slept snugly upon his cot.’

  ‘Put him on a field with twenty other knights,’ guffawed Gabriel, ‘and he is a hungry lion. But show him a tiny grey creature and the man wobbles like jelly.’

  ‘I’ll show Cécile who wobbles!’ Mouse grabbed Gabriel’s hand and, holding it fast upon the board, spread the fingers. A look of absolute horror swept his companion’s face, both of them yelling at once. ‘Quick!’ bawled Mouse. ‘Give me a blade.’ Gillet slid his dagger across the table and Mouse was temporarily distracted as he studied the bejewelled haft. ‘A fine piece you have there, Bellegarde.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  Armand jumped up and bodily braced the still protesting Gabriel, holding his wrist firm.

  ‘Watch this,’ whispered Gillet.

  Interested spectators had begun to gather, encouraging both men. Mouse clamped his great paw onto Gabriel’s wrist and began striking downward with the dagger, stabbing the table between each of the exposed fingers, slowly at first, then steadily gaining speed. Gabriel was screaming now, the excited horde joining his yells, raising their voices higher as Mouse moved faster and faster, until I could not distinguish the blade from the haft. As the caterwauling reached a crescendo, Mouse tossed the weapon into the air, and caught it with his teeth. The mob went wild, Gillet, Armand and I amongst them. Poor Gabriel collapsed onto the table.

  ‘Ale for the courageous knight,’ yelled Mouse, delivering a resounding slap. ‘He did not shite his chausses!’

  Gillet sheathed his dagger, smiling. ‘Mouse has never slipped, not once.’

  Gabriel gulped his ale and, dragging his sleeve across his brow, slammed the tankard down. ‘Non, but there must come a first time. À Dieu ne plaise! I do not want my body parts there when he does!’

  The tavern began to empty and with desolation dragging at my soul I forlornly pushed away my cup.

  ‘Come,’ whispered Gillet, mistaking my demeanour for weariness, ‘I shall escort you to your room.’ Bidding the others a good night, we alighted the stairs together, pausing before my chamber door.

  ‘I shall collect Catherine’s letter before I leave in the morning. Now go,’ his lips crushed mine in an ardent kiss, ‘before I change my mind and stay.’

  My candle burns well past the hour of matins. I cannot sleep. Catherine, for so long I have dreamed for the love of such a man. But Gillet is a knight and that has changed everything. A mere courier would not have been distained for accepting someone in my circumstance. Indeed, given all that a dowry would bring, including rank and privilege, he would have been considered fortunate. A knight has no such need. Whilst he may have come to terms with the loss of my innocence, I know he will turn from me. Catherine, I am not worthy of Gillet’s affection. For weeks now I have nursed a terrible shame, one that I have been too afraid to face. I know I should have written and told you, but I could not. I have done all I could to hide my secret but soon the truth will show. Edward’s child grows within my womb.

  Written by Cécile d’Armagnac, L’Hostel de Ville, Arras, The Feast of St Gregory the Great, 2 September 10 Jean II.

  Gillet drew rein when he caught sight of the boat. Inferno whinnied and wheeled around, forcing his owner to tighten his hold and redirect his mount. ‘Whoa, boy. I know.’ Gillet glanced over his shoulder and his gloved fingers smoothed the proud equine neck. ‘I know, but we shall return soon. That I promise you.’ He slid from his saddle and led his horse towards the loading ramp. Yes, he’d be back for Cécile d’Armagnac but for now it was Anaïs upon whom he should concentrate. The woman was dangerous.

  His horse was led into the hull of the ship and Gillet went to the main cabin area below deck to claim a bunk. He threw himself upon the crude canvas sling and closed his eyes, ignoring the man urinating into the slop bucket which in a couple of hours would be rolling around the floor. The reason for this voyage weighed heavily upon his conscience. From a long ago past, Simon’s lectures of ‘seeding wild oats’ drifted to him, pricking him further. He had always been careful, except for the time in Morocco, in Simon’s service, when youthful exuberance had addled his wits, that and the heady wine. But offspring had not been the problem. The woman knew plenty of precautions. And the risk of scaling the harem wall, sneaking past the eunuchs and into the arms of a waiting concubine had certainly been worth the education he’d received. But he’d learned that pleasure came at a price. That time, he’d had a lucky escape.

  He rolled onto his side and snorted with disgust. Could a man actually claim he’d been misused by a woman? If so, then Anaïs had most definitely played him false. At the Beltane feast he’d drunk to forget but the ale had not soused his bitterness. He’d stumbled to his room, his mind torn between hate and infatuation. Anaïs had seduced him. The cunning wench had unearthed the root of his problem and she’d soothed his troubled soul. He had fallen under her carefully woven spell. As he hovered ’twixt semi-consciousness and slumber she’d whispered endearments in French, until his befuddled mind had believed it was another upon him.

  Eyes closed, he’d been enraptured, unable to distinguish truth from dream. Anaïs had used the tricks of a harlot, calling herself by another’s name. There was no luc
ky escape for him this time. He had fathered a child.

  He rose and doused his head from the water crock and then slumped back onto the cot to nurse his head. What price would now be extracted for that moment’s dubious pleasure? Would his and Cecile’s new-found love be able to endure? No doubt the coming days would provide him with an answer. For all that he had at last gained, his stomach churned for what he now might lose.

  To my most faithful sister, Cécile d’Armagnac.

  What wonderful news I have to share with you. At last after much anticipation I am settled in the home of our mother and her husband, Lord Thomas Holland. Unfortunately, much to my disappointment neither is currently in residence as Simon predicted.

  Such extensive grounds could surely not be found anywhere, nor views more beautiful, and the house pleases the eye at every aspect to behold. The interior is filled with rich tapestries and ornate rugs, which I would never have thought to exist. The sweeping staircase within the grand entrance hall is magnificent and, according to Simon, similar to that found at Westminster. Each room boasts its own fireplace and with such a bounty of wood from the nearby forest the excessive warmth is sinful. My room, the likes of which takes my breath away, faces west towards the lake and each morning I watch as the groundsmen row to the shore, having collected the many fowl fallen prey to their well laid traps.

  The sturdiness of the gate and walls and the width of the moat make penetration by the uninvited impossible, so for the first time in many months I feel truly safe. Simon has inspected the fortress and spoken with numerous retainers, whose unswerving loyalty to the family is without question.

  But there is much to tell you that occurred before we arrived. You will recall that Simon and his brother, Roderick, carefully planned our perilous flight to Broughton, which involved a manner of deception rather than speed.

  On the morning of 31 August, I was woken early by Mary carrying her lighted candle, and a hunched, old monk, his features hidden beneath his cloak. Imagine my surprise to discover, once the hood was lowered, Simon’s smiling face beaming out through the dim morning light. Oh, my darling, I laughed; I had to regardless of the discomfort, for his face was moon-like in shape, with his hair now neatly cropped and atop his head a shaved white scalp, a tonsure, so much the distinct feature of a monk. He punched his belly with both hands, the deadening thump betraying the padded layers beneath. Honestly, my dearest, he looked twice his weight and consequently twice his age. I giggled again and tears appeared, both for mirth and for the pain in my eye which had become worse during the night. But my determination to get to Broughton far outweighed any concern I had for my health, so I said nothing and prayed instead for the good Lord’s assistance.

  My possessions were already packed and my chest was, I presumed, with the other goods awaiting our departure.

  ‘Do you think you can walk?’ my guardian asked.

  ‘Of course! There is nothing wrong with my legs,’ I replied indignantly as I balanced myself against his enormous girth. Within three steps, I came to realise that he had good reason to ask.

  ‘Oh goodness,’ I gasped as the room began to spin.

  With strength I did not know he possessed, he swept me into his arms and carried me downstairs to one of the many empty benches in the tap room. Mary reappeared and wrapped a cloak around my shoulders. Although I welcomed its warmth, I could not help but notice its grubby and beggarly state.

  ‘Sorry, part of the image,’ Simon explained. ‘Mary had to search high and low for one as bad as that!’

  ‘It must be better than mine,’ chuckled Roderick, entering through the back door. I nodded to him, having not seen him since the day we had arrived at the inn. Oh, how this seemed so long ago. I hoped that over the coming days I would be given the chance to know Roderick better.

  ‘Our goods are safely loaded,’ he said, swinging his own shabby cloak across his shoulders. He, too, was dressed as a monk but I doubted that he required additional padding to fill out his woollen robe.

  Once outside, Roderick pulled back the canvas covering the wain and Simon helped me in. The floor was covered with straw and numerous stained linen bags, the smell overpowering!

  ‘Sorry. I’m afraid the rotten meat is completely necessary,’ said Simon, screwing up his nose.

  Almost gagging, I climbed in and lay down next to a large pile of old rags, my touch inducing a long moan. ‘Anaïs?’

  ‘She won’t wake,’ affirmed Simon, ‘not for a while yet, so try to sleep as much as you can. It will make the journey easier.’

  Closing my eyes, I prayed for rest, for though I had not complained I was feeling decidedly ill, but wanted nothing to delay our departure. The roads were well-travelled with ruts aplenty and the wooden vehicle bumped and jostled its way over every deviation as I cradled my face, my jaw clenched. I eventually found sleep, only to be woken by the call of my guardian.

  ‘Trouble ahead, Catherine.’

  I slid my legs further under the hay and pulled Anaïs towards me, the warmth of her body providing me with an unexpected strength.

  ‘How may I help you, my son?’ said Roderick, his voice lowered to a pious reverence.

  ‘Where you be heading?’ asked a man, his accent revealing his local origin.

  ‘I am on my way to Salisbury, near the hospice,’ replied Roderick.

  ‘Mind if I take a look back there?’

  ‘Of course not, my son.’

  ‘What ye be looking for, now?’ came the voice of Simon in an accent I could barely recognise.

  ‘My master seeks a runaway, a young woman of renowned beauty. Said she’s got long hair, same colour as straw.’ I immediately reached up to my uncovered head, my heart pounding with fear.

  ‘Offer a reward, did he?’ asked Simon.

  ‘What’s it to you, monk?’ the man scoffed.

  ‘Just wonderin’ how much, is all.’

  I had to act quickly. Rolling onto my side, I grasped one of the meat sacks.

  ‘You got summit to hide?’ asked the man.

  ‘No,’ said Simon, ‘have ye?’

  ‘What’s that suppose to mean?’

  ‘The good Lord sees all, my son, including ill-gotten gains.’

  ‘Oh, give over! It’s just a ruddy job! Some of us gotta earn a living, ya know. We got mouths to feed and if he’s gonna pay me to check all these carts, then I’m gonna take his coin.’ The stranger’s voice moved closer as I hurriedly emptied the rotten meat from the bag and slipped it over my head, stuffing my hair underneath. I could hear Roderick struggling with the ties on the canvas, and I prayed as I quickly recovered myself with hay.

  ‘God Almighty, what’s that stink?’ The man’s raised voice must have attracted the attention of another, for two men were soon making obscene comments about the smell.

  ‘You there, explain yourself!’ This was a different newcomer, more educated than the previous two. Anaïs muttered in her sleep, disturbed by the ruction around us and I laid my hand on her arm. She fell silent.

  ‘M’lord, just gonna inspect this cart,’ came the first man’s reply.

  ‘Well, get on with it! I am not paying you to create a spectacle.’

  Anaïs began to whimper and struggled to free herself of my grip. ‘Mo … Mol … Mol …’ she mumbled.

  Quickly I placed my hand over her mouth, confirming to myself what she had been trying to say. Moleyns. My heart began to beat faster.

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, M’lord, but it stinks!’

  ‘What are you carrying, monk?’ demanded Moleyns.

  ‘Lepers,’ replied Roderick. I could hear the gasps and knew all three men would be moving away from their find.

  ‘Open it!’

  My breath caught in my throat, fear coursing through me as Roderick unlaced the cover and threw it back.

  For a long moment there was silence but as I lay perfectly still I could feel something moving over my cheek. Maggots had infested my hair and were beginning to crawl down my face! I clen
ched my jaw, fighting the urge to scream.

  ‘They’re just young boys,’ said Simon, with a deep note of compassion. ‘If you wish, we can get them out so you can inspect their infected limbs up close, but their legs may not hold.’

  ‘No! No need!’

  ‘We are trying to get them to the blessed waters at the sanctuary,’ added Roderick. ‘It won’t help but it will offer them some comfort in their final hours.’

  ‘Then for God’s sake, man, get on your way!’ yelled Moleyns. ‘What are you men doing standing around? Stop wasting my time and let these monks pass!’

  Roderick rolled the flap back into place and the cart rocked as he and Simon climbed back in. The horses jolted forward.

  Waiting as long as possible, I ripped off the offending bag and called out. The cart stopped and Simon jumped into the back, ordering Roderick to keep going.

  ‘I admire the lengths to which you are prepared to take your disguise, but did not expect you to cover yourself in grubs!’

  ‘Please, just help me get them off!’

  His fingers rifled through my scalp several times. ‘Rest easy, there were only a few.’

  ‘Are they all gone?’

  ‘Every one.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I swear on my honour as a knight,’ he declared confidently. ‘We shall head directly for Winchester, without stopping. Do you think you can cope until Stockbridge?’

  ‘I think so.’ But I was unsure, for my stomach was pitching terribly and I was unable to open either of my swollen eyes. ‘Anaïs may be waking, though.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll deal with her.’

  I listened to her garbled protests and felt a kick in my shins as she struggled. Then her thrashing ceased. Expecting Simon to return to his brother, I was surprised when he lay down beside me. His hand felt cool against my forehead and I heard him hiss.

  ‘You are burning. Are you sure you can go on?’ he asked.