The Gilded Crown Read online

  A couple of young, spirited knights rushed over, and nervously asked Gillet if he and his companions had yet been commissioned.

  The mêlée would consist of four territorial groups: four companies of knights – Picardie, Flandre, Normandie and Berri. All competitors would select the banner under which they would fight, usually that of their liege lord. As Bellegarde fell within the realm of Berri, Gillet would fight under the jurisdiction of Comte d’Orléans, which was directly under the Crown. It was a highly respected company. As Gascogne was not represented at all Armand was a ‘free lance’ and, naturally, he had offered it to his cousin. Gabriel, being from the Beaumont de l’Oise family, fell within the district of Picardie, but he was a ‘purchased lance’ since they had decided to fight for the Berriéans. This meant Gillet was in charge of their group, Bellegarde being the ‘lance of homage,’ but had they chosen to fight for Picardie, Gabriel would have served instead.

  The younger knights learned that Orléans had claimed Bellegarde and, disappointed, they retired, wishing the men well.

  Lord Montargis crowed with a Midas glee.

  ‘Bellegarde and his companion-in-arms are valued lances and highly sought on the competition field, Madame,’ confided Lord du Sully to Cécile. ‘Anyone who survived Poitiers is worth their weight in gold, and I believe that your husband and Beaumont de l’Oise cut their battle-teeth as young pups at Crécy.’ He surprised her with a charming wink. ‘Even if they fought on the wrong side!’

  By mid-morning Margot and Cécile made their way to the stands, having left Jean Petit in the care of the maids. Almost a month had passed since the wedding and neither Gillet nor Cécile had been eager to quit the comfort of their new home in Arras, the Maison des Fleurs.

  Enjoying her respite from motherhood, Cécile watched as knights mounted and rode to the holding lines where a profusion of gaudy pennants fluttered. She shuffled closer to Margot as a man squashed in beside them. He wore a cloaked tunic that fell to his hips, the split sleeves of the expensive brocade edged in soft beaver. He accorded Cécile a courteous smile and, tipping his matching fur hat from his sparsely-haired head to Margot, squirmed closer.

  ‘I fear we shall be packed like salted herring afore long, and smelling just as ripe.’ Cécile obliged him with a nod as Margot excitedly dug her in the ribs.

  ‘They begin.’

  The field sorted into groups and two contestants rode to opposite ends for the first joust. Cécile immediately recognised the silver and red stripes of Lieven, and the blue and gold diagonals of Beaupre.

  ‘Ha! Knights d’Artois,’ she announced. Cécile outlined to Margot the tactics of Beaupre, sounding much as Gillet had at the last tournament. She surprised her company on both her left and right flank when her prediction came to pass.

  ‘You would think Lieven would know by now,’ snorted Cécile, smugly.

  ‘Madame, that was astonishing,’ voiced her cloaked neighbour. ‘I apologise for being so forward, but you leave me in awe. Monsieur Maroeuil at your service, Madame. I own a stall in the Place de la Merchands, fabrics and furs.’

  That accounted for the brocade and beaver, thought Cécile. Her gaze fell to his right hand which sat resting comfortably on his knee. And for the expensive kid gloves.

  ‘I do not recall seeing you before, Milady. Yet you are acquainted with our local knights?’

  Cécile’s cheeks coloured. ‘Your pardon, sir, you have caught me out. I only recently arrived in Arras, but my husband and I visited last year during a tourney. It was he who accustomed me with the strategies of which I spoke.’

  The man’s gaze lifted to Margot, and then past her to the crowd beyond. ‘And your husband?’

  ‘Is presently occupied elsewhere in the grounds, Monsieur. No doubt he will join me later.’

  The merchant nodded affably.

  Another set of knights rode forward and, realising that she would be hard pressed to distinguish the blazons, Cécile considered her options.

  ‘Do you attend tournaments often, Monsieur?’

  ‘Oui,’ he answered, jovially. ‘I would not miss one.’

  ‘Then, perhaps you will not mind acquainting me with some of the other knights. I am quite lost without my husband present to explain.’

  ‘It would be my pleasure, Lady, er …’

  ‘Lady de Bellegarde,’ she informed him. Gillet had warned her that to remain in France they would have to leave the name of ‘Albret’ behind.

  ‘My pleasure, Lady de Bellegarde.’ He shifted closer to make himself heard above the sudden roar of the crowd, his left hand striking out to point. ‘Andre d’Auchy and François Desvres, lads in service locally; Desvres should win.’

  The two knights thundered across the ground, clouds of dust in their wake. The lances struck heavily. Cécile’s companion was correct. D’Auchy tumbled onto the grass, unhorsed in the first pass. The merchant’s gaze was fixed firmly upon the field but Cécile could have sworn he slid closer still. For his intelligent and accurate commentary, she forgave his intrusion and for the next hour or so, happily listened as he explained the devices and their wearers. A poking of Margot’s elbow hit Cécile’s left rib as the woman squealed tremulously. ‘Look!’

  Armand was riding to the list. Monsieur Maroeuil peered down his nose and Cécile pulled her light cloak further over her shoulder, with an indulgent smile. ‘Our cousin,’ she offered. ‘A Gascon.’

  Panache pranced in agitation as Michel, Armand’s squire, handed up the lance. The spiral ribbon of red paint, curling from tip to end, teetered for a moment as Armand secured his grip and controlled his mount.

  ‘Monsieur Maroeuil, who is his competitor?’ asked Cécile.

  ‘Longueville from Normandie,’ he replied, ‘a noble knight who likes to win.’

  ‘Ah, but so does my cousin.’

  The horses charged, and the crowd leaned forward in their seats, eager for the outcome.

  ‘Observe.’ Monsieur Maroeuil pointed. ‘Longueville will push hard and hope to unbalance your cousin by changing his direction at the very last minute.’

  Cécile watched, breathless with excitement when she felt a gentle pressure against her breast – a tingling sensation. She was shoulder-to-shoulder in the crush and glanced suspiciously at her neighbour, but his left hand was suspended in the air, and his right was still casually sitting on his far knee.

  ‘There!’ yelled Monsieur Maroeuil. He stabbed the air jubilantly. Longueville’s lance shifted. It glanced off Armand’s shield and hit his shoulder, knocking him backwards. Armand held firm as he delivered a similar blow. The crowd roared their approval. A heat accompanied the tingling feeling at Cécile’s right breast, and she drew breath sharply, spinning in her seat. Monsieur Maroeuil was rubbing the back of his right hand and he grinned broadly.

  ‘A fine pass by your cousin, though I think he may have been surprised by the move. He made an excellent recovery and I think he has given his foe much to consider.’

  Armand took up his second lance. Longueville was ready, his horse stamping impatiently. The flag dropped and they streaked across the field. Cécile observed Armand, true to Gillet’s teachings, firmly fix his gaze on Longueville, and then, at the last moment, lower his lance and twist in his seat.

  ‘Hola!’ cried the merchant, merrily. ‘That was ingenious work by your cousin.’ Unsuspecting, Longueville accepted a vicious blow and was thrown back in his saddle, his own lance failing to connect. ‘Oh,’ Maroeuil laughed, ‘Longueville will not like that! He prides himself for not missing a pass.’

  Margot jumped excitedly on the seat, and the mob yelled encouragement for the newcomer garbed in blood-red. They waited eagerly for the last pass, unsure of the outcome. In one row bets were hastily changed and more coins changed hands. The horses charged, and almost immediately Cécile felt a dense pressure at her ribs. As the lances crashed together, splintering into the air, Cécile squealed as a hot palm smothered her breast and ruthlessly squeezed. She jumped to her feet. ‘
Monsieur!’

  Maroeuil blinked up stupidly, and Cécile stared at his two hands neatly sitting on his thighs.

  Margot pulled her back down, crowing with elation. ‘Armand won!’

  Cécile glared at Monsieur Maroeuil, peeved that she had missed the pass.

  ‘Your cousin is a fine jouster,’ he chortled. ‘From where did you say he came?’

  Cécile swallowed uneasily and told herself that she was being ridiculous. After all, the man’s hands had not moved from his knees. Perhaps the groping had come from behind. She turned to find that only women were seated in the row above her.

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ one of the women cried. ‘The Red Devil! He can bring his lance to my house any day.’

  Her friend giggled and swigged from a wineskin. ‘Don’t be greedy, Isabelle. You always take the handsome ones. Let us have our turn.’

  ‘Gascogne, Monsieur.’ Cécile gave the cloth merchant an apologetic grimace. ‘My cousin comes from Gascogne.’

  ‘Ooooh,’ trilled another voice behind her, ‘I would not mind wrapping a red ribbon around his lance!’

  Maroeuil smirked over his shoulder, and leaned close to Cécile. ‘Ladies of the night,’ his head jerked, ‘from the local tavern. Your cousin is a long way from home.’ Maroeuil scratched his nose absentmindedly. ‘The truce, I suspect, has left him this far north.’

  Cécile nodded agreement just as her ribs were dug again. At least she could be sure about that feeling.

  ‘Look,’ breathed Margot, ‘Gillet comes to the list.’

  Cécile forgot all else as she gazed upon the tall, dark form of her husband, his helm still tied to his saddle, his black hair – longer now – bobbing freely across his shoulders as Inferno trotted onto the field, tossing his head and snorting.

  ‘Ooohh. Sacre bleu!’ shrilled the female trio. ‘Look at that one dressed in blue. He’s mine.’ A burst of giggling sounded. ‘Demons together! Oh, look! He knows the knight in red.’ There was a chorus of plaintive sighs as Armand rode to Gillet and leaned across his saddle to talk.

  Cécile noticed then that all the knights had shifted from their anchor. ‘Why do they break rank?’ she asked the merchant.

  ‘To stretch the horses’ legs and prevent them from stiffening,’ he answered. ‘This is the end of the first quarter. They will have a five minute interlude.’ A prickling heat burned just below Cécile’s right breast and quickly she glanced sideways, but Monsieur Maroeuil was absently scratching his nose again. His other hand still rested upon his knee.

  ‘Gillet is riding our way,’ announced Margot. The merchant shuffled and coughed. Gillet approached and Cécile was taken aback at the fury sparkling from beneath his scowl. Inferno snorted as they drew level, the women behind Cécile shrilling elatedly, but Gillet blatantly stared at the merchant. Unsmiling, he spurred Inferno to rear and the great beast rose onto his back legs, his front hooves punching the air in warhorse fashion. Gillet spun Inferno around and repeated the action, his gaze never leaving the merchant’s face. Then, quite deliberately, he lowered his gauntlet to hover ominously over his sword. Monsieur Maroeuil turned a pasty hue. Inferno was kneed forward, and Gillet bowed, touching his hand to his lips, then clamping his steel fingers over his heart before extending his arm towards Cécile. It was the most gallant gesture Cécile had ever seen.

  With a yelp the merchant took to his heels. Gillet grinned wolfishly at the retreating figure. He tipped his head to Cécile’s new neighbour and, with a genuine smile, blew his wife a quick kiss before galloping back onto the field. Cécile was tapped on the shoulder from behind.

  ‘Do you know him, Mademoiselle?’

  ‘It’s Madame,’ said Cécile. She held up her ringed hand. ‘He is my husband.’

  ‘Hard luck, Isabelle,’ sniggered her companion.

  ‘I must say that was bizarre,’ said Margot, still watching where the merchant had disappeared.

  ‘Gillet certainly took a dislike to our companion,’ said Cécile.

  ‘No. That is not what I meant. I mean it was odd that Gillet should react so, but what was even stranger was the man’s clothing as he ran away.’ She jiggled her fingers in the air. ‘He had a fat glove hanging off one knee!’

  The tourney reconvened and it was the squires’ turn. Griffith rode to take his place at the marker. He was dressed in the Bellegarde insignia and sat tall and confident as Ramon, Gabriel’s squire, handed up a lance. The flag dropped and the two horses raced across the field at breakneck speed.

  Curious about Griffith’s competitor, Cécile spoke to her new neighbour. ‘Pardon, Monsieur, but do you know the man who bears the white castle flanked by two towers?’

  ‘He’s from the Normandie company, Madame – Robiérre d’Arques.’ The man spat onto the dirt. ‘A conceited, brash, misfit with high expectations beyond his station. He clings to the Comte de Rouen like a dag of mud on a hem. I hope your man defeats him and if he has been trained by your husband, then he stands every chance.’

  Cécile thanked him politely, and turned back to watch. Gillet had been training Griffith, but this ‘D’Arques’ was also competent. It went to three passes but, being an older squire, Griffith’s build and strength triumphed. As he rode back to the Bellegarde contingent, Robiérre spurred his horse towards the Normandie encampment and, deliberately enticing his beast, spun it to kick a wooden rack. Precious helms spilled into the dirt.

  ‘Whoever that upstart is,’ murmured Cécile to Margot, ‘he possesses a most foul temper.’ They watched as an older knight strode over and cuffed the young man as he dismounted.

  ‘’Twould seem the Knights of Normandie agree with you,’ replied Margot.

  The squire pointed accusingly across the field, and Cécile’s brows rose in surprise. Griffith had been a flower of chivalry. The knight thumped D’Arques’ shoulder and, incensed, the younger man kicked a nearby stool before stomping into the tent. Cécile considered that the knave’s temper might be the reputation of which Gillet had heard. She had little time to wonder long for Margot grasped her arm.

  ‘Gillet!’ she hissed.

  Gillet de Bellegarde rode to the marker. A chorus of admiration echoed from the stands but the gentleman next to Cécile shook his head disparagingly. A hefty knight in bright gold, with a black lion rampant, had just ridden to the opposite end.

  ‘That was ill luck for your husband, Madame. The Comte de Flandre is favoured to win this tourney. ‘’Twould seem your lord is to be his first sacrificial lamb.’

  Cécile smiled with more confidence than she felt. ‘If I know anything of my husband, Monsieur, he will concentrate on beating instead of bleating.’

  But moments later Cécile’s heart grew heavy when Gillet struggled to bring his horse under control. Inferno had picked a fine time to display an attack of rebelliousness, while, at the other end, the Comte de Flandre’s huge destrier pawed the earth like a provoked bull. Inferno was unwilling to stand his ground, and broke twice before the flag dropped, much to the crowd’s chagrin.

  ‘I have never seen Inferno like this,’ confided Cécile to Margot. The horse simply refused to do his master’s bidding and, worse, it was obviously making Gillet nervous. Inferno flung his head without warning and the rein slipped through Gillet’s gauntlet, further stressing the horse when it trod upon the dangling strap. Inferno reared and Cécile watched, horrified, as her husband slipped backwards in the saddle, grappling madly at the horse’s mane to stay on. To be unseated before running the list was to wear a jester’s crown indeed. Gillet secured the rein, his head hovering above Inferno’s ears, no doubt swearing a torrent of abuse through the slit in his helm. His cussing must have found its mark, for Inferno obeyed and held still.

  Gillet’s head spun around angrily and, with dismay, Cécile realised he was looking for Griffith. His squire should have been waiting, ready to pass the lance but where was he?

  Within the folds of her skirt Cécile’s hands curled into fists. ‘If Minette has distracted Griffith at such a mom
ent,’ she hissed, ‘I will flay her senseless!’ Fear was turning into desperate anger.

  Margot paled and glanced at Cécile just as Griffith ran onto the field, lacing up his chausse. The crowd sniggered. He hastily grabbed the weapon from the nearby stand. The rack toppled and spilled over. The audience laughed outright; they could have been watching a mummer’s play. When Cécile thought it could get no worse, Griffith let go the lance before Gillet could secure his grip and it fell uselessly to the ground. The crowd laughed harder and some hooted at such a display of clumsiness.

  Finally the flag dropped and the two knights charged, Inferno slower to start than Flandre’s snorting beast. With despair, Cécile realised that the Comte would meet Gillet in his own territory – well past the halfway mark. Her heart sank further as Gillet’s grip on his lance did not seem assured. It wavered in the air, veering off course to slide ineffectively against the Comte’s shield. Contrary to all his teaching, at the crucial moment, Gillet dropped his head too far and lost sight of his target. The black lion on the Comte’s chest rose in defiance and Gillet was slammed back in his saddle, the weapon striking hard and heavy. Gillet fell forward and dropped his lance. He scrambled to release his helm, tore it off, and holding one arm across his chest, trotted back to the starting post.

  In the stand Cécile felt a toe kick at the back of her gown.

  ‘I hope he is better with his lance in bed,’ the whore snorted crudely. ‘At least with his looks you don’t have to blow out the candle.’ A burst of ribald guffawing sounded.

  Margot slid her arm through Cécile’s. ‘Pay them no attention. Everyone has a bad pass now and again.’ Cécile smiled her thanks but the truth was even she had seen squires on wooden barrels joust better.

  They were ready for the second run. Inferno danced uneasily at the marker, but Griffith neatly passed the lance this time. The flag went down and the riders broke together, but Cécile was mortified. Inferno had broken before Gillet was ready. His weight was flung backwards, almost out of control. He wobbled in his seat, trying to heave the cumbersome weapon into position. Flandre was closing fast, his lance poised for a deadly strike, and Gillet had not yet managed to hook his into the cradle! In a last desperate effort, Gillet threw his weight across his saddle and over calculated. His lance was aimed nowhere near his opponent, whilst the Comte bore down upon him with deadly accuracy. Cécile covered her face and peeked through her fingers. Gillet had no option but to abandon all hope of a strike and, in order to save his seat, he dropped his lance in favour of holding fast to the saddle. His shield was raised in time and Flandre’s lance struck the blazoned bell dead centre to ring out a victory. Cécile let her breath out slowly. It had been his only option, she told herself. The Comte would have most certainly unhorsed him otherwise.