The Lily and the Lion

by Catherine A. Wilson

  They charged through the inn’s front door but Gillet’s hope of accompanying his cousin to the boat quickly dissipated. Two soldiers appeared at the corner.

  ‘Hola! We have him!’ they shouted.

  Gillet pushed Cécile from his grip. ‘Take her, Guiraud. Go. Go.’

  Cécile was to remember three things about her escape to the boat: the sight of Gillet running towards the soldiers with his sword drawn and the terrifying sound of steel clashing against steel, Guiraud pulling her arm with incredible strength as they ran across the docks, and something that she was grasping for dear life cutting into the palm of her hand.

  They boarded the vessel. There was a yell, running steps echoed and Cécile saw Armand. She began to shiver feverishly, vaguely hearing Guiraud’s explanation, and in turn Armand spinning around to shout orders to the men on deck. Something snapped inside, a desperate feeling of being ripped away from everything she loved and trusted. It came from the very depths of her soul and, whatever question her mind was asking, her heart was screaming the answer.

  ‘Non, Armand. Non! You cannot leave Gillet behind!’ She pummelled his chest with her fists. ‘ I will not go without him.’ Armand held his cousin tightly until, spent, she sank against him, weeping hysterically.

  ‘Listen, Guiraud, get Mouse and Gabriel. Go find Gillet. We have at least five hours before we can sail. I’ll wait two before putting out to sea.’

  Guiraud nodded at his brother and took off down the plank, speeding across the dock to disappear into the shadows.

  ‘Hoist the colours!’ yelled Armand. In the fading twilight Cécile stared as the unadorned red flag climbed the pole and flapped in the breeze.

  ‘Albret,’ she whispered and looked at Armand.

  ‘We are an English vessel now. We shall be safe.’ He took her clenched fist and forced it open, retrieving the medal that was smudged with blood from her cut palm. ‘The chain has broken,’ he said softly. Reaching for its partner around her neck, he unfastened it and draped both medals together. ‘Gillet will have this fixed.’ He gently squeezed her hand. ‘Come below, Céci. Inferno is not at his best on the water and I suppose you will be wanting some sort of explanation.’

  Catherine and Simon disembarked quickly, the captain having settled on a berth close to the centre of the busy port. The wind had picked up, the red flag of the neighbouring vessel flapping wildly against the rigging.

  ‘The Albret standard?’

  Simon followed Roderick’s gaze. The two men considered the larger boat.

  ‘Possibly, but I doubt he would be so bold. It may be a deception. I suggest we make for the inn,’ replied Simon.

  Roderick hurried Anaïs, who was mumbling incoherently.

  The moonlight, though dim, created sufficient illumination to assist their path, the cobblestones glistening from a sprinkling of rain. Simon’s route was sure, though his gait stiff and Catherine clung to his hand, drawing her strength from him.

  They paused outside the Oar and Anchor Inn. Simon drew Catherine closer. ‘Listen.’ The clash of steel upon steel had Roderick draw his sword and Simon pushed Catherine into the shadows.

  ‘English soldiers.’ Roderick sidled up to the corner, his body hidden behind an empty cart.

  From the stygian gloom a gruff command rang out. ‘You are outnumbered, Bellegarde, lower your weapon.’

  ‘I think not,’ came the reply.

  Anaïs’ eyes widened. ‘ Gillet!’

  Roderick rounded the building as Catherine pulled Anaïs beside her.

  ‘Let me go, you bitch!’ she shrieked, her nails seeking Catherine’s face. Knocked off balance, Catherine grabbed at her maid and the two women tumbled back behind a wall of wooden casks.

  In the hull of the ship, Inferno tugged at his rope and snorted restlessly. The beast was ill at ease upon the rocking motion of the waves.

  ‘He certainly isn’t a seahorse,’ quipped Armand.

  The black head turned and nostrils flared, pink flesh drawing back over his teeth.

  ‘Inferno,’ whispered Cécile, reaching out. The horse eyed her warily then, stretching his great neck, lipped the shoulder of her gown. He whinnied and snuffled against her hair.

  ‘He can smell Gillet on you,’ said Armand.

  Cécile laid her head against the horse’s shoulder and stroked the stallion’s back. It soothed them both. Armand sat upon one of the bales, watching. He plucked a stalk and began to chew upon it.

  ‘Gillet’s real name is Ghillebert d’Albret. He is the fifth and youngest son of Beraud, my father’s brother. He is my paternal cousin. Gillet is the name his mother bestowed upon him, and yes, his family was amongst the first to serve the Black Prince, but like me, chérie, Gillet is loyal to France. He did not want you to know this, for there was a small chance that your own genuine reaction, upon learning his identity, may have saved your life in the event of his arrest at any stage of our journey.’

  Cécile said nothing but abandoned Inferno to pull Ruby’s brush from the small linen bag lying nearby. She began to clean her horse’s coat. She needed some activity upon which to focus for her mind was reeling. Ghillebert d’Albret. She was in love with Armand’s cousin! She swiped at her moistened eyes angrily. ‘He said I was just an English whore for his amusement.’

  ‘Gillet said whatever was needed to protect you. Guiraud told me it was Bonneuil and there is no love lost between those two. If Bonneuil had suspected that you meant anything at all to Gillet, he would have had you arrested, or worse.’

  Cécile gasped as tiny pieces began to fall into place. ‘And Gabriel de Beaumont de l’Oise? Gillet knew him, didn’t he?’

  Armand nodded. ‘Both Gabriel and Mouse are Gillet’s companions-in-arms.’

  ‘But this Bonneuil said Gillet was a captain of King Edward.’

  Armand sighed. ‘Ghillebert d’Albret was squired to an English family and for a time fulfilled a duty in Edward’s army, but for the past four years he has faithfully served Bertrand du Guesclin of France.’

  Of course! Cécile had heard this story many times from Armand, for his own delight at his cousin joining the French forces had been great. She swallowed hard. The very same cousin against whom she had grown up nursing an irrational jealousy.

  ‘He loves you deeply. More than you know.’

  Tears stung Cécile’s eyes, and her voice wavered as she brushed Ruby. ‘If you love and trust a horse, it will repay you one hundredfold. You need never fear betrayal.’

  ‘Is that what you think he has done? Betrayed you?’ Armand grinned. ‘He bought you Ruby. Do you recall the first time you tried to ride a horse? What age were you? Five? Six?’

  Laughter mingled with Cécile’s tears. She knew it was a favourite ploy of Armand’s to take her mind in a new direction. ‘Five, as you well know. I was forbidden to ride until I was six.’

  ‘Do you remember what happened?’

  ‘Yes. Visitors had come to the keep and we children had been sent to play. You and Jean le Bossu were fighting with wooden swords.’

  Armand patted the seat next to him. ‘Come. Sit. You were so determined that we should play Crusades. Out you marched in one of Aunt Beatrice’s old wraps, and her treasured barley headpiece, declaring yourself to be Eleanor of Aquitaine.’

  Cécile perched next to Armand and giggled through her tears. She plucked her blue ribbon from the overnight bag and begin to twine her unruly hair. ‘’Twas so pretty, that headpiece.’

  Armand smiled fondly. ‘You had no need to imitate Eleanor’s iron will, for you had your own.’

  Cécile nudged him with her shoulder. ‘Yes, but you and Jean wanted to practise your sword-fighting, and there was that boy whose family was visiting. He insisted on showing you the proper defence.’

  ‘But you kept running in the middle, pestering us all until, for your own safety, he lifted you upon his bareback pony, so you could lead the Crusade.’ Armand chuckled, ‘But we had not foreseen our swordplay frightening the animal and it
bolted with you clinging to its back, like a little royal monkey with a crown of barley, until you fell off.’

  Cécile laughed, though she remembered it had not been funny at the time. ‘Papa was so angry that he roared at all of you.’

  ‘Oui, but he yelled at that boy most of all for having put you on his pony in the first place.’

  ‘It was not the swordplay that caused the pony to bolt.’ Cécile twisted to face her cousin and grinned sheepishly. ‘What you do not know is, while you and Jean were occupied I had badgered that boy into allowing me to hold the reins. At first he gave me only one but I was relentless, promising to sit still if he would only let me hold both, just for a moment. As soon as he did I kicked the horse!’

  Armand burst into laughter. ‘Mon Dieu. I should have known. Do you know that he suffered greatly that day? Total humiliation – a scolding from Uncle Jean, witnessed by all the adults. Were he aware of what you did, he never admitted it.’

  ‘Oh, he knew. He knew.’

  Armand took Cécile’s hand, his expression serious. ‘What I never told you was that Uncle Jean took him behind the stable and delivered a sound beating. As the oldest, that lad had been given the task to keep us from danger. Uncle Jean was overwrought that his Little Princess had an accident and he took it out of that boy’s hide. I doubt that the lad could sit for a week.’

  ‘No,’ breathed Cécile, no longer humoured. ‘I did not know that.’ Although she had never suffered one directly, she knew well of her papa’s rages. Visualising the boy’s fall from grace pricked her conscience and a wave of regret – long years over-due – washed over her. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Well,’ continued Armand, ‘he was sent home in terrible disgrace. And there was no doubt that he would receive another thrashing from his father, who was extremely cruel. It was the only time that I have ever known Uncle Jean to regret his actions.’ Armand raised Cécile’s hand. A smile lurked at the corner of his mouth as he kissed her fingers. ‘Sweetheart, that boy was Gillet.’

  Cécile sucked in her breath and held it, her heart drumming wildly as images of Gillet soared before her. She picked up Ruby’s brush and began to smooth the dust from her horse’s coat again, her trembling hands in dire need of occupation. She could barely see through her tears.

  Armand watched, and brought one ankle to rest upon his knee in thought. ‘Gillet’s childhood was bereft of joy, unlike ours, Céc.’

  ‘He told me only tonight of how his mother died when he was but months old.’

  Armand leaned back and folded his arms with a frown. ‘My father once said that Beraud was so devastated by his wife’s death that he flatly disavowed his newborn son. Gillet was given into the care of servants. By all accounts, Guiraude de Gironde adored her infant son, and tried desperately to cling to life. Did you know that Gillet means “little Ghillebert”? It was what she called him but after her death his father strictly forbade the use of it.’

  ‘Non!’

  Armand nodded pensively. ‘Gillet was sent into page service when most sons are still enjoying their own hearth and, as you know, whenever he came home Uncle Jean would send me to him. A wise man, your papa. He knew that during my visits Uncle Beraud curtailed his resentment.’

  ‘You mean he would beat Gillet?’

  ‘All the time and for no good reason.’

  Cécile’s hands stilled and she stared at Armand. ‘And to think I used to be jealous of you visiting him.’

  ‘Chérie,’ he smiled, ‘we would spend my entire time discussing you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. Gillet always wanted to know what pot of misadventures you had stirred. ’Twas a sure way to make him laugh, and he did little enough of that.’

  ‘You spoke about me?’ Cécile repeated, numbed by the revelation.

  ‘You still do not understand, do you?’ said Armand gently. ‘You have held Gillet’s heart for far longer than you realise. When he was arrested two years ago, he was on his way to Larressingle, to your papa.’

  ‘To meet me?’ Her heart skipped a beat.

  ‘No, you ninny. To ask Jean d’Armagnac for your hand in marriage!’

  Ruby’s brush slipped from Cécile’s grasp and Armand rushed to catch her as she fell weeping into his arms.

  Ghillebert d’Albret swung his sword, cursing the lack of wind in his lungs. He felt as though his rib cage had split open, the bones that had cracked under the pressure of Bonneuil’s earlier treatment splaying wide. He blocked the blow, the jarring sensation spinning waves of pain throughout his body. At his back his young cousin, Guiraud, valiantly held off another, and to his side Gabriel and Mouse fought in similar positioning. The alley was too narrow for Mouse to let loose his favourite weapon, his morning star. The damage it could inflict would take friend as well as foe but the confined quarters also gave them a chance to meet their adversaries in limited numbers.

  He thrust his blade with precision and sliced low on the soldier’s arm. The man screamed and fell, blood spurting. If the fellow were cack-handed, he would never hold a quill again. Gillet scooped to retrieve the shield and hastily unravelled the cloak wrapped around his arm, with barely enough time to block a hefty downward swing. As one man fell, another took his place.

  His head was pounding, his throat raw, and his gut clenched tightly with every blow but his movements were controlled and precise – thrust, parry, strike. All his years of training were at his fingertips. He’d cut his battle teeth at Crécy and been knighted at Poitiers. Be damned if he’d lose his life now in a backstreet alley! The obstruction in front of him crumpled in whistling death throes and he allowed himself the briefest grin of satisfaction.

  The pain in Simon’s leg was excruciating. His attackers, aware that he was favouring his left, concentrated their efforts on his wounded side. Swinging about, one soldier stumbled on the uneven ground. Simon moved quickly and thrust his blade through the man’s chest before pushing the body back towards the second. Beside him Roderick felled another man. Risking his advantage, Simon turned his gaze from the mêlée to seek Catherine.

  Deflecting Anaïs’ hands, Catherine rolled atop the screeching woman, pinning her to the ground.

  ‘Get off me or I swear I will kill you!’ Her maid kicked out and gave a mighty shove.

  ‘In the name of the King, I command you. Hold.’

  Sitting astride a roan stallion, Salisbury appeared like a spectre in the mist. Terrified, Catherine froze, momentarily relaxing her grip. Seizing her chance, Anaïs scrambled to her feet and dashed across the alleyway. ‘Gillet!’

  Gillet grunted as the woman slammed into him. ‘God’s sake! Anaïs? Get out of here!’ He shook her off and twisted to block another blow, only to find his movements restricted as she clung to him. ‘Get away, woman! Will you have us both killed?’ He shoved her roughly, brought up his shield and withstood a resounding crash. Instinctively, his arm rose to deliver his return but it carried no further than his shoulder, hampered by her weight.

  ‘Gillet! I am here, my love.’

  He thrust her backwards and for a split second his guard was open. Anaïs tumbled into the dirt, her eyes widening as a sword flashed. Gillet both heard and felt the tearing of cloth, skin and muscle. He knew numbness and then a searing heat as blood soaked his shirt. His legs buckled. Anaïs screamed as he fell.

  ‘I said hold.’

  Surrounded by reinforcements, Simon, Roderick and Gillet’s counterparts lowered their weapons.

  ‘Well, well, well. I wasn’t expecting to trip over your sorry carcass, Wexford.’ Salisbury slid from his mount. He stepped over the inert body of Gillet, tightly held in the arms of a wailing Anaïs. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was having a friendly chat with this fellow about a horse.’ Simon nodded to the body at his feet. ‘Seems he didn’t like my offer.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Unsheathing his knife, Salisbury thrust the tip to Simon’s chest.

  ‘I do not know who …’

  �
��The bitch is hiding right there!’ screeched Anaïs, pointing at the barrels.

  ‘Run, Catherine!’ Simon threw up his arm and knocked the blade away from Salisbury, his hand curling around the Earl’s throat.

  ‘Simon!’ Catherine stared in horror at the pikestaff blocking her path.

  Breaking free of Wexford, Salisbury reached for his sword, but was knocked over by a blow to his face. Both men fell to the ground, but it was Simon who gathered the hilt into his palm and lunged at his attacker. Salisbury cried out and grasped his sleeve. ‘Seize him! Seize him.’

  Simon was surrounded. To fight on would surely cost him his life.

  ‘You will pay for that, you bastard,’ threatened the Earl, attempting to staunch the blood that oozed freely from his wrist. He struggled to his feet, spittle flying as he pointed to where Mouse, Gabriel and Guiraud were held. ‘Throw those three in a cell.’ He spat at Gillet’s feet. ‘Bring Albret and the rest inside.’

  To the owner of the Oar and Anchor, brawls were a regular part of his business. He knew the best way was to ignore them so long as they were not smashing his inn apart. But when a burly commander with soldiers at his back, dragging a barely conscious, bloodied man, burst through his door and demanded a room, he knew to give it his full attention. He directed them to the chambers at the rear and sent a prayer skywards that they would not remain long.

  ‘And bring me a flagon of your best wine,’ bawled Salisbury. ‘You, set a guard around this inn, and you, lock these two in here.’

  Anaïs broke free of Roderick and snared Salisbury’s arm. ‘You promised me,’ she hissed. ‘You promised me Gillet.’

  Salisbury sneered and brushed her off as though she were a bothersome insect. ‘So I did. But it is out of my hands now. You should have brought them directly to me as agreed.’ At his nod, the guards shoved Roderick into the first room.