The Lily and the Lion Read online

  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 February 2012

  This edition published April 2012

  Copyright © by Catherine A. Wilson and Catherine T.Wilson, 2012

  Cover design, typesetting: Chameleon Print Design

  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 Lily and the Lion

  ISBN: 978-1-921829-87-1 (pbk)

  Digital edition published by

  Port Campbell Press

  www.portcampbellpress.com.au

  ISBN: 9781742981741 (ePub)

  Conversion by Winking Billy

  Cathy T

  I dedicate this to my mother; she was my greatest fan, as I was of her.

  And for my nephew, James, a warrior taken from this earth far too early – both lost within 8 weeks of each other but still very much alive in my heart.

  For George, Luke and Tina, and all my family whose love and support has been beside me every step of the way

  – I thank you.

  Cathy A

  To Dave, Adam and Katrina, three of life’s most

  precious gifts – where would I be without you?

  And to all my family, thank you for your continued

  unwavering support.

  In France:

  Comte Jean d’Armagnac – Count of Armagnac, Father to Cécile

  * * *

  Cécile d’Armagnac (Sayseel Darmunyack) – Eldest daughter to Comte Jean d’Armagnac; Cousin to Armand-Amanieu d’Albret

  * * *

  Gillet de Bellegarde (‘Jillay’ with a soft ‘J’) – Steward to Lady St Pol and secret envoy to the Black Prince

  * * *

  The Black Prince – Eldest son of King Edward III

  * * *

  Armand-Amanieu d’Albret (Armond-Armunyer Dalbray) – Cousin to Cécile d’Armagnac

  * * *

  Madame Rosetta Duvall – Chaperon for Cécile, engaged by Gillet de Bellegarde

  * * *

  Gabriel de Beaumont de l’Oise – Companion-in-arms to Armand

  * * *

  Mouse (Martin de Brie) – Companion-in-arms to Armand

  * * *

  Dame Violetta Duvall – Sister to Rosetta

  * * *

  Guiraud d’Albret – Younger brother to Armand

  * * *

  In England:

  Catherine Pembroke – Ward of Mary St Pol, Countess of Pembroke

  * * *

  Anaïs d’Arques (Anna-ees) – Maid to Catherine Pembroke

  * * *

  Lady Mary St Pol – Widow of Earl of Pembroke and Patroness of Denny Abbey

  * * *

  Lord William Montagu – Second Earl of Salisbury

  * * *

  Lord John Moleyns – Salisbury’s knight

  * * *

  Lord Simon Marshall – Earl of Wexford and a Knight Hospitaller

  * * *

  Roderick of Shalford – Half-brother to Simon

  * * *

  Lady Matilda Holland – Sister of Sir Thomas Holland

  * * *

  Bertram – Lady Matilda’s gardener

  ‘Poxy, whoring, conceited bastards.’

  Cécile d’Armagnac spun to confront her father, her anger far from spent. ‘My betrothal to the Duc de Berri is severed without explanation. Am I to greet this news with lines of poetry, Sir? The Dauphin craves the alliance of Armagnac and I know his brother desires me, so what malady ails them?’ She slammed her gem-encrusted goblet down. ‘Merde! I was to wear gold Luccan brocade and the finest rubies in France. Instead I shall be the laughingstock of the court!’

  ‘Sheathe your tongue, girl! I am yet your father.’ Jean d’Armagnac’s stomach churned at his own words. He sank onto the stool and stared for a moment at the rich tapestries decorating his daughter’s royal chamber. Then he drew a deep breath. ‘The Dauphin still requires the alliance of Armagnac. Duc de Berri will marry your sister, Jeanne, and I am here to give you explanations.’

  ‘Jeanne? Mother of God. She is a milksop! A snivelling baby. She’s more likely to wet the Duc’s bed!’

  ‘Céci,’ groaned Comte d’Armagnac, ‘give me a little peace.’

  Cécile heard the defeat in her father’s voice and sharply swung around. This parent was everything to her. With growing alarm she noted his drooping shoulders and the dark smudges beneath his eyes. His whole bearing slouched rather than sat.

  ‘Papa! You are ill.’ Almost tripping over her velvet hem she kneeled at his feet and laid her cheek in his lap. She gently kissed his hands. ‘Forgive me, Papa. Forgive my wicked temper. Tell me what grieves you so.’

  Jean d’Armagnac withdrew his warrior-calloused palm and stroked her honey-blonde hair. ‘The truth, daughter. And it is you who must forgive me. The Dauphin was right to break your troth, and the fault is mine alone. For years I have lacked the courage to speak.’ He lifted her chin to meet the clear, blue gaze. ‘Cécile, you were a gift to me beyond my expectations, but you come not from my loins. Your blood is not Armagnac.’

  Cécile stared in open-mouthed bewilderment. She drew back slowly, her eyes glazed. ‘I am not Armagnac?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then Jean le Bossu and Armand …’

  ‘Are not your true brother and cousin.’

  ‘And you …’ The breath caught in her chest and was squeezed from her in a murmur. ‘God have mercy.’ She rose unsteadily and walked to the casement to stare beyond the palace walls, her hands clutched over her heart, a shield against the pain. ‘You are telling me that for nineteen years I have lived a lie?’

  ‘Seventeen. You came to me in your second summer.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she whispered.

  Comte d’Armagnac watched the hurt on his daughter’s face and muttered an oath. God knew he loved her as his own. No. That was a blatant lie. He loved her more but only God, his priest and he were privy to that. Had he been compensating for this one day all along? He’d allowed her uncommon free will in her youth and suffered the ridicule of his neighbours. As her sisters had toiled over needlework, this unfettered daughter had ridden the countryside in play with her foster brother and cousin, her eloquent tongue the result. He had never wished to curtail her spirit. He knew one day she might need it.

  ‘It was long ago,’ he began, ‘when I received a message from a Lady Mary St Pol, Countess of Pembroke, urging me to meet with her. Her father, Guy de Châtillon, was from one of the most notable families in the north and Lady Mary had a strong connection to the Clermonts, my wife’s kin. Fearing some scandal was about to fall upon us, I agreed.’ The Comte stared, his attention rooted to the wall as if apparitions had suddenly appeared upon the grey stones. ‘I will never forget it. We met at the Abbaye de Flaran by Larressingle in the dark of night. I can still se
e Mary standing there clutching her cloak against the wind, her lips pressed tightly as plainsong echoed from the chapel. She beckoned me to follow her through the cloister, up a stairwell to a private chamber, her finger raised in a gesture for silence as she stepped to an alcove and swept aside the curtain. There, fast asleep on the paillasse, lay a tiny girl shrouded in a mantle of golden hair.’ He smiled warmly at the memory and a twinkle danced in his eye. ‘She was a scrap of a child but Mary knew how to ensure success. “Her name is Cécile,” she said, “and I want you, Jean d’Armagnac, to keep her for me, in honour of our families’ ties. She has nowhere else to go and I could wish for no other to care for her. The world must know her as your own. Silence any tongues that beg to differ. You must ask me no questions and your goodwill shall be handsomely rewarded.”’

  A shadow of tenderness darkened Jean’s eyes as they fastened upon his daughter. ‘My mother’s name was Cécile. She was a princess. I had no need of questions. I loved you upon the instant.’

  With a sob, the young woman flung herself into his arms, their tears mingling as he rocked her. ‘Forgive me, child. I should have told you the truth long ago but I could never find the right moment.’

  Cécile slid her arms around her father’s neck and felt his love engulf her like a warm, soft blanket. Granting the forgiveness he craved, she tenderly kissed his roughened cheek.

  ‘Mon père. I love you.’

  ‘And I you, Princess.’

  Comte d’Armagnac exhaled with relief. The worst was over. There was more, but he would ease it to her gently. She was no – what had she called it? – milksop, but he knew his next revelation would sting. Her recent introduction to court had been a triumphant success. She possessed a radiant beauty that attracted men as surely as syrup drew ants and, raised more tomcat than kitten, she was something of an enigma to them. The gentle-born ladies had immediately despised and shunned her but Cécile reacted to their malicious resentment in her own stoical fashion, with cool disdain. Jean knew that inside the cocoon that was his daughter, there was a butterfly but her jaundiced gender chose only to see the caterpillar.

  ‘Truth be, I am relieved that your betrothal is broken, Céci. Jeanne is biddable and far more suited as wife to the Duc.’

  Cécile wiped her eyes and smiled. ‘If you are telling me that I was to be merely another exotic artefact for his illustrious collection, I but knew it. Only yesterday I dusted myself a space between his gem-studded, leather-bound illuminations and Aristotle’s De Coelo. His study shelves have a wonderful view of the river, but for summer I considered the menagerie, a cage next to his prized dromedaries. The breeze is cooler there.’

  ‘Céci,’ groaned her father.

  ‘Papa,’ she chuckled, ‘we both know I was not swept off my feet in adoration and my heart is hardly broken. Such notions of love are for the feather-headed.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I did like the rubies though.’

  Jean d’Armagnac pinched her cheek. ‘Do not condemn love so easily. Your mother and I found it. What you need is a husband who will see the minikin in you, for I would not have you beaten daily. And it would be better for him if he could break your heart.’

  Cécile laid her head upon his shoulder. ‘I have your love, Papa, and Jean le Bossu and Armand. What more do I need?’

  Here was his moment and his heart missed a beat. ‘What of true kin?’

  Cécile leaned back, frowning. ‘What of it?’

  ‘I recently received news of the Lady Mary St Pol. Apparently she has harboured her own ward all these years, a girl called Mary Catherine. She is a novice in Denny Abbey, Cambridgeshire.’ He paused as the mention of enemy land brought a deadly glitter to her eyes. ‘And I know she is your sister.’

  ‘England!’ choked Cécile. Affronted, she jumped to her feet. ‘You offer this as compensation? Sisters I have. I wanted a husband and title. Ooh!’ In order to give herself occupation, she re-filled two goblets, spilling the wine as she handed one to her father. At his raised brow, her chin jutted into the air with the arrogance of the noblesse. She had been practising the movement for weeks. ‘England has pillaged and raped France for the last ten years. I was to be a Duchess but you give me a dirty-kneed nun from England. How could you possibly think this news would appease me?’

  ‘Cécile, listen to me. I am commissioned to Bourgogne. King Edward advances upon the Duc Philippe de Rouvre and we must know the outcome. The Dauphin has agreed that you may remain here at the palace under his protection until I return. Why not use that time to write to her?’

  ‘Is it not enough that this ill-bred, English monarch has our own King incarcerated in some dungeon in Lincolnshire? He covets all of France and while his grimy boots march across our beloved land, you would have me waste my ink upon one of his subjects.’

  ‘Mary Catherine is in a religious house. Her world is removed from affairs of State.’

  ‘Oh, even better,’ snorted Cécile. ‘We can discuss the latest designs for habits! I believe black is fashionable at the moment. Or is it serge brown? Perhaps we can swap a recipe for a tasty dish. What will it be – gruel or gruel?’

  ‘Cécile. Keep that tongue for your brother and cousin. I am still your father.’

  The young woman’s lip trembled. ‘And there is the crux of the matter, Sir.’ Her tears spilled over. ‘You are not, are you? And to make me write is to force me to acknowledge the fact.’

  Jean d’Armagnac placed their goblets on the table and hugged his daughter to his breast, allowing her tears to soak his doublet. ‘Hush now. A seed makes the child, but not always the father. You are mine own. Never doubt it.’ He permitted her a space for grief and when her sobs quietened he tried again. ‘Write the letter, Cécile. If not for yourself, then do it for me. Perhaps you think you have no use for a lowly nun in your life but what of the girl beneath the robe in England? Maybe she has need of you.’

  Most reverend Sister Mary Catherine, novice at Denny Abbey, Cambridgeshire, England, I bid you greetings.

  My name is Cécile d’Armagnac and by God’s grace I am your sister. It is true. Ask your guardian.

  I am given to understand your circumstances but you can hardly know mine. Before this disturbing revelation, I was to be a Duchess, a princess of France. I am sure you can see that we have little in common but I promised my father I would write and tell you of myself.

  I was raised not far from Condom, the seat of power of the Armagnacs, at Larressingle, a grand fortress perched high upon a hill that commands a spectacular view across lush fields of green and gold. There I grew with two brothers and two sisters and a beloved cousin, Armand-Amanieu d’Albret, who since the age of six was fostered into Comte Jean d’Armagnac’s care.

  Albret is an elite family of large proportions, connected by the marriage of Bernard Aix IV d’Albret to Marthe d’Armagnac, my papa’s sister. The coupling of these two houses is an amicable one, despite the Albrets’ staunch alliance to your King Edward of England, and my papa’s steadfast refusal to take up arms against the French crown. The placement of their son, Armand, into our household is testament to the affection that exists beneath the layers of diplomatic influence. Moreover, my father is an excellent knight and Armand learned much. I am sure this must bore you but I admire those who struggle to preserve the land we hold dear.

  The time spent with my sisters amounted to many exasperated sighs and copious eye-rolling but not so the precious hours I accompanied my cousin. I adore Armand, as does Papa, for he laboured as a son when my brother, Jean le Bossu, could not.

  Jean is special to us for he is not physically strong and suffers many bouts of illness, though mentally he is forged steel. At his bidding, he is known as le Bossu – the Hunchback – and I once asked him why he became his own court jester. He replied, ‘Céci, I was bound to become a laughingstock for the lump in my back and that being the case I will tumble my bells at my convenience.’ And for all that is out of place in Jean, there is quite a lot more in place and he is well liked for i
t.

  The three of us were inseparable as we grew, apart from the long weeks Jean lay abed. During those times Armand and I clung together and when I would not stand for the sons of the noblesse teasing my brother’s deformity, Armand’s fists stopped what my indignant retorts could not. We would hide in Papa’s huge cellar as I cleaned Armand’s cuts and bruises, and he would laugh as he twisted my hair around his hands.

  ‘Céci,’ he would say, ‘you are my ray of sunshine, but when are you going to learn the wisdom of holding your tongue?’ But I knew Armand would forgive me, he always did. Black-haired, blue-eyed, with a smile that had the village girls queuing at the confessional, he could have wheedled the last coin from a beggar. I cried for weeks when he took up his soldier’s duty. On the night before he left, over a candle in Papa’s barn, we cut our thumbs with his dagger and, mingling our blood, swore an oath of lifelong friendship.

  Even though my father’s lands now lie under the jurisdiction of England’s Prince, two months ago I was introduced into the royal court in Paris for the purpose of marriage to the Duc Jean de Berri, brother of our Dauphin. It was a strategic ploy to tie Armagnac directly to the French throne and I was well-pleased with my forthcoming status. Besides, the Duc possesses the most wondrous library and his stables house some of the finest horseflesh in France. In these two places I could have felt some measure of happiness, for little can match the home where I grew or the affection that was nurtured beneath those beams. One does not expect love from marriage, so all in all I was satisfied. But my father’s honour was unable to continue with the deception, and he revealed that I was not born of his blood. When he learned of you, my sister, he believed it to be recompense from God, a reward for having spoken his honesty. Where does this leave me now? I suppose my Papa shall raise my dowry to secure another match. It might help to know who I am … or maybe not. And us, Mary Catherine, what of us? You are about to enter into a lifetime commitment to God, removed from the politika that rules my world. I will become wife to whomsoever will overlook my failings. Even the lands upon which we were raised are constantly at odds. You and I have so very little in common. In truth, we are bound by only one thing. Papa told me the date of your birth, the twelfth day after Twelfth Night, Anno Domini 1341. You see, Mary Catherine, we began this life together in the womb. We are two halves of a whole. You are my twin.