The Gilded Crown Read online

  Also by Catherine A. Wilson and Catherine T. Wilson

  The Lily and the Lion

  The Order of the Lily

  www.lionsandlilies.com

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  twitter: Catherine T Wilson@LionsandLilies1

  Catherine AWilson@LionsandLilies2

  Published in Australia by Sid Harta Publishers Pty Ltd,

  ABN: 46 119 415 842

  23 Stirling Crescent, Glen Waverley, Victoria 3150 Australia

  Telephone: +61 3 9560 9920, Facsimile: +61 3 9545 1742

  E-mail: [email protected]

  First published in Australia April 2015

  Copyright © by Catherine A. Wilson and Catherine T.Wilson, 2015

  Cover design, typesetting: Working Type Studio, Melbourne (www.workingtype.com.au)

  The right of Catherine A. Wilson and Catherine T.Wilson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to that of people living or dead are purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Wilson, Catherine A. and Wilson, Catherine T.

  The Gilded Crown

  ISBN: 9781925280524 (eBook)

  Digital edition distributed by

  Port Campbell Press

  www.portcampbellpress.com.au

  eBook Conversion by Winking Billy

  Cathy T

  I dedicate this book to all the re-enactors: to those people who spend their weekends pitching tents, lighting campfires, cooking over cauldrons, endlessly sewing costumes, practising archery or swordplay, making weapons, jewellery and pottery – to those people who strive to keep history alive in our hearts.

  Cathy A

  For the many gifted women who inspire me every day – Cathy T, Allison, Heidi, Ingrid, Nicole, Penny, Robyn and Vicki. Thank you for your unwavering friendship.

  In France:

  Lady Cécile d’Albret

  Natural daughter of Thomas and Joan Holland

  Fostered daughter to Comte Jean d’Armagnac

  Sir Ghillebert d’Albret

  AKA – Gillet de Bellegarde

  Wrongly disgraced knight,

  working with secret order of Knights Templar

  Sir Armand-Amanieu d’Albret

  Cousin to Ghillebert d’Albret

  Nephew to Comte Jean d’Armagnac

  Sir Gabriel de Beaumont de l’Oise

  Companion-in-arms to Ghillebert d’Albret

  Mouse (Sir Martin

  de Brie)

  Companion-in-arms to Ghillebert d’Albret

  Griffith ap Ynyr

  Squire to Ghillebert d’Albret

  Lord Arnaud d’Albret

  Older brother to Ghillebert d’Albret

  Lady Marguerite

  de Narbonne

  Wife of Arnaud d’Albret

  Veronique Lagrasse

  Personal maid to Marguerite

  de Narbonne

  Minette Roubaix

  Personal maid to Cécile d’Armagnac

  Duc Jean de Berri

  Brother to the Dauphin, once betrothed to Cécile

  Vicomtess de Gisors

  Queen Consort of France

  Blanche d’Evreux

  Widow of King Phillipe VI

  Reynaud de Tosny

  Blacksmith at Vernon

  Eustace de Bonneuil

  French rogue soldier.

  Archenemy of Gillet

  The Black Prince

  Edward of Woodstock,

  Prince of Wales

  Eldest son of King Edward III

  In England:

  Lady Catherine Marshall

  Wife of Simon Marshall, Lord Wexford and natural daughter of Thomas and Joan Holland

  Lord Simon Marshall

  Earl of Wexford and a Knight Hospitaller

  Roderick of Shalford

  Half-brother to Simon

  Lord William Montagu

  Second Earl of Salisbury

  Lord John Moleyns

  Salisbury’s knight

  Gabriel (baby Gabby)

  Fostered son to Simon and Catherine

  Natural son of Anaïs d’Arques and Lord John Moleyns

  Girda

  Nursemaid to Gabby

  In Scotland:

  Lady Agnes Dunbar

  Countess of Dunbar and March, known as Black Agnes

  Lord Patrick Dunbar

  9th Earl of Dunbar and March

  Husband of Black Agnes

  Walter Odistoun

  Illegitimate son of Robert 1st (the Bruce) and Elizabeth de Burgh

  Beatrix Odistoun

  Wife of Walter, sister of Simon Marshall, half-sister of Roderick of Shalford

  David II

  King of Scotland, half-brother to Walter Odistoun

  Margaret Logie

  Mistress to King David

  Robert Stewart

  Nephew to King David

  Euphemia Stewart

  Wife to Robert Stewart

  Agnes Dunbar

  (the younger)

  Niece of Patrick and Agnes Dunbar

  English Mary

  Servant in the Odistoun household

  Tiphanie de Carmaux

  Companion to Catherine

  ‘You have my men surrounded and yet you hesitate,’ observed the older of the two players. ‘Strike now and the game is yours.’

  ‘There is no rush,’ replied his opponent. ‘I like to weigh my choices carefully, prior to making my final move.’

  ‘That would explain your lack of success on the battlefield. Death waits for no man, not even a sovereign.’

  David Bruce, the Scottish King, laughed. His gaoler certainly enjoyed baiting him, perhaps more so than playing their regular game of draughts. His hand hovered indecisively before he selected a counter and jumped two pieces.

  The English monarch raised his eyes to Heaven. Once again his companion had ignored the more aggressive strategy and taken the safer option. In a brash move Edward captured all but one of his competitor’s markers.

  ‘I surrender, I am beaten,’ announced the Scotsman as he began to reset the board.

  Edward stayed his hand. ‘We have more pressing matters to discuss.’

  David Bruce rose from his seat to collect the jug of wine left by the retreating chamberlain. ‘I’ll no be givin’ her up. Regardless of what your sister might say, I’ll no be givin’ her up!’ He glanced to the corner of the room where the tussled bed linen was a tacit reminder of the afternoon he’d spent in the arms of his mistress. So hurried was her departure that she failed to retrieve her cloak, haphazardly discarded on the flagstone floor. David smiled warmly. He counted himself very fortunate for though a prisoner, his surroundings were sumptuous. He was granted numerous liberties and attracted enormous respect but, most surprisingly, in his thirty-first year he believed he had finally fallen in love.

  ‘I don’t give a fig about Katherine, or any of your dalliances for that matter. But Joan is my sister and I am tired of her lamenting and weeping.’ Edward III was stern.

  ‘My wife has not entertained my company for nigh on three years, and though I may be incarcerated, I am still Scotland’s King!’

  ‘Yes,
but you remain under my roof.’ Edward smirked. Ten years had passed since he locked his brother-by-marriage in the tower. At first he had seriously contemplated removing the Scotsman’s head. Now he believed their friendship was mutual. But would it remain so, he wondered, when the fool was permitted sufficient freedom to fly home? ‘One hundred thousand marks, twenty-five noble hostages and your oath of allegiance. That’s all I ask.’

  ‘As I have said many, many times – I haven’t the coin.’

  ‘Instruct your Stewart nephew to raise the taxes.’

  ‘Ha! Robert wouldna’ raise his kilt to piss on my feet!’ David refilled Edward’s goblet, then sat opposite him. He studied the tablier and grimaced. If just once he could retire the winner. ‘I dinna suppose you would accept twenty-five marks and one hundred thousand disloyal noblemen?’ he joked.

  Edward considered his sister’s husband. How desperately did David want his freedom? ‘One hundred thousand noblemen you say? Would that not include most of Scotland’s titled families?

  ‘I would think so,’ said David. ‘’Tis only the peasants who wish to see the return of their monarch. Robert Stewart and his followers enjoy unbridled patronage in my absence. My release would not suit them.’

  ‘But it would allow you the sweet taste of revenge?’

  ‘I have nothing with which to broker an agreement.’ David winced.

  ‘I disagree.’ Edward stroked his beard, then lent against the table. ‘You have something I have long wished to acquire.’ He withdrew a large parchment from his doublet, opened the document over the draughts board, and turned it for David to view. A scribe had taken his time, so neat was the script, and he’d included a magnificent depiction of both David and Edward’s insignias in the top left and right corners; the spiky thorns and the bulbous burst of purple depicting a thistle of Scotland and a sprig of common broom, planta genista, the emblem of Geoffrey of Anjou, founder of the ‘Plantagenet’ dynasty.

  David sucked in his breath and let it out in a slow whistle as he read. ‘If I were to entertain your suggestion I would never again be able to set foot in my homeland,’ he murmured. He glanced up at his adversary. ‘I may be many things, Edward, but I am no traitor.’

  ‘Your wife is planning to leave London, removing any chance you have to produce an heir. Your countrymen jest behind your back and have deliberately ignored the many opportunities I offered them to secure your release.’

  ‘They will hang me!’

  ‘Robert the Bruce would have signed it.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’

  ‘Is it? He would have dribbled ink on anything placed in front of him if it meant he could reclaim his throne.’

  ‘My father did not always take the time required to think things through.’

  Edward snatched up a fistful of David’s discarded playing pieces. ‘And one day your hesitation will cost you your life.’

  The two men stared at each other for several long moments.

  ‘You bastard!’

  ‘You cannot rule your country from my dungeon,’ stated Edward.

  David considered his options. ‘I want your word that this will never reach the ears of my clansmen. Time enough for them to know when I am dead.’

  ‘I offer you my oath.’

  David picked up the quill and scrawled his name across the bottom of the parchment. To hell with the consequences, for once he wouldbe the victor.

  Resplendent in his armorial surcotte, Gillet de Bellegarde stood upon the tourney field at Arras and folded his arms. His weight rested nonchalantly on one leg, his manner cool and confident as he laughed with his friend, Gabriel de Beaumont de l’Oise. Tethered beside them, swathed in a matching azure, fringed caparison, blazoned with a large silver bell, was Gillet’s horse, Inferno. The tar-black stallion lifted his head and drew back his top lip to expose his teeth as he sniffed the air. Admiring glances from female passers-by were directed in abundance at the two knights and when Armand-Amanieu d’Albret joined them – his blood-red tunic conspicuous for the lack of heraldic device – one may have thought the sons of Narcissus had gathered for a briefing before being let loose on a village of virgins. The women began to loiter in the hopes of being noticed, the bolder ones even daring to pat the steed. But, unlike the son of the Greek river God, whose vanity had been his downfall, these men were seemingly unaware of the many sighing gazes intended for them. It was the two outrageous looking men, striding across the grass, who captivated their attention.

  The first was tall and thin, and the poor man’s mop of bright red hair clashed distastefully with his surcotte’s heraldic colours of gules and argent. His face was framed by a long, oiled moustache and he wore a pointed beard. His companion was much shorter but substantially broader, clean shaven and his dark hair was plastered to his scalp with the exception of a wayward tuft at the crown. His blazoned tunic of a gold rampant lion against lozenges of yellow and blue stretched over a well-fed belly. In buff chausses that ended in soft-soled shoes, he reminded Cécile of a fat little turnip, and his ginger-haired companion, in garish parti-coloured hose of orange and green, was the complementing carrot. Cécile frowned as they singled out her husband. What broth was about to be set brewing?

  ‘Mon Dieu, Sully! Look what the cat has dragged in.’ The tall man threw up his arms with delight.

  ‘Upon my soul!’ wheezed his friend. ‘It’s Bellegarde.’ His purple cheeks puffed out in pleasure. Taking turns they hugged Gillet enthusiastically. ‘Are you here for the tourney? It’s going to be a delicious fare.’

  ‘The Burgundian wine is most excellent and the stands are filled with wanton whores like luscious lutes just waiting to be strummed.’

  ‘Gentlemen, have a care,’ retorted Gillet. ‘Your words slip from your tongue in seconds, but I shall have to live with their consequence well into the evening.’ He beckoned to Cécile. ‘I should like to present to you, my wife.’

  ‘Wife,’ choked the tall man. ‘Good Lord! You sly devil. Which maiden finally managed to put the bell around your neck?’

  ‘Messieurs, my wife, Cécile d’Armagnac,’ introduced Gillet, ‘and our son, Jean. Sweetheart, may I present Lord de Montargis and Lord de Sully – our closest neighbours to Bellegarde.’

  ‘Son?’ The carrot looked as though he’d just been told he was to be eaten. ‘Have you been away so long?’ He bowed to Cécile, his gaze indecorously sliding to her bodice. ‘Lord de Montargis, at your service, Madame.’ He lifted her hand to his lips but his eyes remained firmly upon her cleavage. ‘For such charming company, I shall be more disposed to visit you in the future, Bellegarde.’

  ‘And I am Louis de Sully,’ bowed his companion. ‘I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Madame.’ Unlike his neighbour, Sully’s stare never left Cécile’s face and she had the distinct impression that behind those feverish-bright eyes, she was being weighed and measured. ‘Your husband has our utmost respect. I do so hope he shall return to his keep before long. Routiers have been sighted in the area and unguarded walls always attract attention.’

  ‘Routiers?’ Cécile glanced at her husband.

  ‘Yes, Madame. Soldiers out of work from the truce and still hungering for a fight.’ He stuck his finger in the baby’s mouth and Jean Petit gnawed it hungrily. ‘Lively fellow, Bellegarde, with a good appetite.’ Sully looked over Cécile’s shoulder and his face lit up. ‘Beaumont de L’Oise and Albret! Good tidings, gentlemen. I should have guessed you would not be far. Where is that big, stropping oaf you see fit to keep tied to your retinue, Bellegarde?’

  As if on cue, a loud noise erupted from the nearby tent and four squires spilled out, gasping. Mouse appeared at the entrance, jiggling his hand at waist height behind him. ‘I told you those legumes would have the most profound effect.’

  ‘But that did not stop you from going back for a third helping,’ quipped Gabriel. ‘Pwah!’ He quickly vacated his position near the tent flap.

  ‘’Tis a pity,’ choked Armand, his eyes watering, ‘that we c
annot find a way to harness that.’ He followed Gabriel. ‘We could use it in warfare.’

  The men broke into laughter.

  ‘Save it for the mêlée, Mouse. Only trouble is, we shall all have to stuff wadding up our own noses.’ Gabriel chortled.

  Lord Montargis looked delighted. ‘I take it this means you will be fighting in the tourney? Under the banner of Orléans for the Knights du Berri, of course.’ He shot an uncertain glance at Gabriel. ‘Unless you have already been commissioned by Picardie.’

  Gabriel shrugged at Gillet. ‘I see no reason to change our arrangements. Orléans suits me.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Montargis clapped his hands together with delight. ‘We know that Beaupré and Liéven are here fighting for the Comte de Flandre, but they are still much engaged with their own grudge to care about winning the tourney. The only man to watch in that group will be the Comte himself. The rest are new lads, young and inexperienced.’ He winked at Gabriel. ‘Picardie has a few seasoned knights from Amiens, but only Montdidier, Doullens and Corbie bear any real scrutiny. The worst threat will come from Normandie. Alençon has ridden in.’ It was said with awe and heads nodded in agreement. ‘And Fécamp, and Longueville too, but the rest of their group are also young pups, still wet behind the ears.

  ‘Although they do say there are two worthy contenders under the Comte de Rouen,’ added Sully, ‘young d’Arques and Gisors from the Vexin.’

  ‘D’Arques?’ Gillet’s gaze flicked to Armand.‘Robiérre d’Arques?’

  Mai oui! Do you know him?’ Montargis was still in rapture.

  ‘No.’ Gillet began to survey the growing crowd. ‘Only of him.’

  Cécile wondered why her husband looked decidedly displeased and tried to remember where she had heard the name before. She raised her brows at Armand but he just shrugged. A sharp fingernail of fear scratched its way down Cécile’s spine.