The Order of the Lily Page 4

  Panic seeped into Cécile’s breast and she grabbed Veronique’s hands. ‘Then you must find Alfred, the captain of my soldiers. Tell him to ready the men and saddle Ruby and Inferno. Then come back and get me. I shall not leave without first having written a note to Margot.’

  ‘Oui, Mademoiselle.’

  Veronique flew down the stairs with the speed of a racing gazelle. Cécile locked her door from the inside and leaned against it, her skin crawling as a wild howl of pain, louder than all the others put together, engulfed the manor house.

  Then there was silence.

  The turret room of Calais Castle was inordinately opulent. The carved coffer and canopied bed, with its dark crimson curtains, bespoke royalty.

  Catherine had not intended to sleep, so had lain upon the richly embroidered coverlet dressed in Cecile’s travelling cloak. However, fatigue had eventually conquered fear until the call of a nearby sentry woke her. Now she lay terrified, expecting the Prince to arrive at any moment to claim her. Perhaps this was the manner in which the condemned spent their last hours as they awaited the executioner, she pondered, her fingers tightening around her rosary.

  After disembarking back in France Catherine watched helplessly as Gillet was roughly tossed onto a litter and carried away. She had been escorted through the large gate of Calais Castle by two soldiers, the full weight of her rash decision settling upon her like a heavy shroud. How was she to going to convince anyone that she was Cécile? How long would she have to endure the attentions of the Prince? It had been folly and madness to take her sister’s place but, Catherine knew if she were to do it over, she would make the same choice.

  She expected her arrival to be immediately announced to the Prince, but was instead paraded through the great hall and led towards the turret staircase. She lowered her eyes from the many stares and ignored the hushed whispers. Catherine mounted the steps and found herself directed to the royal heir’s chamber. She tried in vain to steady her breathing as the guards outside the heavy wooden door stepped aside, the sound of the heavy bolt dismissing any hope of a possible escape.

  Catherine sank down upon the bed. She had to think quickly. She threw back the cover and removed the smallest bolster, then unwound the cloak that had so far successfully hidden the shape of her body. She lifted her skirt and the seams of her chemise protested as she forced the pillow under. The tight fit kept it secure and by arranging the surcote and cloak to the front, her pregnancy appeared reasonably convincing.

  She laid back, closed her eyes and sought to conjure an image of her rescuer, Simon, but the strawberry-blonde hair of her guardian deepened into the russet tones of England’s heir. She had been told of his wicked temper and feared it would not be long before she would witness it for herself.

  Heavy footfalls on the landing shook Catherine from her reverie. She sat up quickly and slid her stockinged feet into her boots as the door flew open.

  William Montagu, Earl of Salisbury, and right hand to the Prince of Wales, stepped into the room. ‘We meet at last, Lady d’Armagnac. I have been looking forward to this moment for some time. I have been directed to escort you to the Prince.’

  At the sight of the man she first met at Denny Abbey, Catherine fought off the terror that threatened to choke her.

  Salisbury offered his arm and smiled with feigned gallantry. His gaze travelled over her and settled on the protrusion of her forthcoming child.

  Catherine grasped his wrist. She immediately regretted the action as he winced in pain. She had forgotten the injury he had sustained under Simon’s blade.

  ‘Pay no heed, my Lady, it is naught but a scratch inflicted by a flea-bitten dog,’ he explained as he slid her grip to his fingers. ‘It would be beneficial, I believe, for both you and I to be … friends.’

  Catherine stiffened at the suggestion but Salisbury did not appear to notice as he directed her towards the stairs.

  ‘As you would well know, a royal court is an intriguing place and England’s is no different. There are those who have the ear of the prince and those who wish they had. Many will pay homage, Lady d’Armagnac, in the belief that you hold sway over your lover.’

  Catherine paused on the landing. The noise of the revelry below heightened her growing distress and she grasped the rail to steady herself.

  ‘You do not appear as enthusiastic as I was led to believe.’ Salisbury pulled her towards him. ‘Take some advice, for what it’s worth,’ he rasped. ‘You have more than one enemy within these walls and will need every ally you can get, including those for whom you may have little liking.’

  His face was inches from hers, his weight pushing her back against the wall causing the pillow beneath her chemise to shift sideways. Salisbury’s malicious sneer suddenly changed to one of surprise. ‘What is this? Do I detect a deception?’ He drew his dagger and placed the blade across Catherine’s throat as he smiled. ‘What nasty little plan have I uncovered, Lady d’Armagnac?’

  He began to explore the folds beneath her surcote, his nails scratching her calf as Catherine kicked out.

  ‘No!’

  Salisbury struggled against her, the blade of his dagger slicing into her shoulder. Catherine screamed, punching at him with her fists as he forced her legs apart. She swiftly raised her knee and thrust all her weight into his groin. Salisbury doubled over. A stream of obscenities flew from his lips as Catherine lifted her skirt and fled toward the stairs. Her escape was clumsy and hampered by the length of her gown. She stumbled. Salisbury, not far behind her, lunged, and tripping them both, they tumbled down the steps.

  In the musty cell of the South Tower, Gillet kneeled before the Prince. The wound in his chest, now cleaned and stitched by the physician, Tariq, began to throb with hellfire. His memories of the last few hours were disjointed and vague, but his presence of mind was enough to know where he was now, and in whose company. The hairs on his nape began to prickle as he bowed his head and he almost fancied he could hear the Prince’s sword being drawn from its scabbard.

  Edward of Woodstock strode to the solid oak door and peered out the grille. ‘Leave us.’

  The guard’s reply was muffled but the sound of his retreating footsteps pounded inside Gillet’s head like a death knell.

  ‘How bad are your injuries?’

  ‘Milord?’ Gillet glanced up.

  Edward stood glowering over him. ‘I asked how bad are your injuries?’

  ‘I will live, by God’s grace … and by yours, Sire.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Gillet lowered his gaze respectfully and watched the boots pace beyond his vision. A trickle of sweat rolled down his cheek from his beaded brow. Tariq had given him a tisane of peppered sorrel but his temperature was still rising at an alarming rate. It might not matter. One word from Edward now and it could all be over.

  ‘Get off your knees!’

  ‘Milord?’

  Edward kicked at the dirty hay. ‘I give you leave to sit among the fleas. You look as though you are about to expire and I am not ready to have you do that … yet.’

  Gillet collapsed onto his haunches and leaned against the wall, his movements clumsy for his ankles were fettered by leg irons. He swung his manacled hands to drape loosely over his legs and, levelling his gaze, watched with surprise as Edward lowered himself against the opposite wall so they were face-to-face.

  The Prince brushed back his reddish-gold crop of hair from his brow and exhaled. The amber eyes were pensive and gloomy. ‘There was a time when you and I were friends. What happened?’

  Gillet tilted his head back and stared at the rotted beams, mottled with damp and mildew. ‘I think you know the answer to that.’ The apple in his throat bobbed. ‘Every year I light a candle for my cousin, Jean d’Albret.’

  ‘I never meant for him to die.’

  Gillet’s smile was bitter. ‘You forgot to tell that to your butcher.’

  ‘His enthusiasm was punished.’

  ‘A comfort to Jean as his hide was torn from his fl
esh, strip by strip.’

  ‘Your cousin played a dangerous game, Gillet. And he was caught.’

  Beneath his shirt, Gillet’s skin crawled. If he must die, pray God let it be quick. Even the stoutest of courage would fail beneath such torture.

  ‘I could charge you with treason, the same as your cousin.’

  The Prince’s words rippled down Gillet’s spine and he forced the shudder into a shrug. He knew Edward well enough to know his best course was not to show fear. ‘Brandishing your power? You know that never scared me.’

  Edward laughed. ‘It was what I liked about you! You never yielded.’

  Gillet blinked down into his open hands. His palms were blistered raw from wielding his sword half the night. ‘Not quite. There were times when it was prudent for me to step back.’

  ‘I always did admire your taste in women.’

  Gillet’s eyes flared and snapped to Edward. ‘You never resorted to trickery and deceit before! You knew a daughter of Armagnac would never willingly fall into your bed.’

  ‘I watched her leave your room at the inn in Paris.’ The Prince’s lips curved upward with his musing. ‘Imagine my surprise when, between my sheets, I found her as innocent as a newborn lamb. That is what you cannot forgive.’

  Gillet’s teeth flashed in the dim haze of the lit wall sconce. ‘Armagnac will not forgive you either.’

  ‘Armagnac is a fool!’ retorted Edward angrily. ‘Do not forget Cécile’s true blood carries the royal line of Plantagenet!’

  ‘She doesn’t love you, Edward.’

  The Prince felt the fetid air thicken with tension and smiled with an ease he did not quite feel. The Albrets may have pledged allegiance to him but they had a mercenary fickleness, and their blood was known to be thicker than most. ‘Then it might surprise you to know that Cécile d’Armagnac did not leave France last night. She resides in a turret chamber two floors above. Perhaps I shall have another chance to make her love me. Think, Gillet. Has she ever stated outright that she hated me? She certainly did not show it in the time we had together.’

  The heat in Gillet’s body flared, burning through every limb and joint. At the same time a chill ran down his spine leaving him cold and clammy. He swallowed but his voice rasped hoarsely. ‘I do not believe you.’

  ‘Believe it! Armagnac will not become my enemy. A healthy sum of gold can put many a wrong to right.’

  Gillet slumped, the pain in his chest a pittance to the dagger piercing his heart.

  ‘As a gift of goodwill for returning her to me I shall spare your life but you shall be exiled to Kent until you realise how fruitless this dream of yours truly is.’ The Prince leaned toward him, his voice softening. ‘Forget her, Gillet. Cécile d’Armagnac was never destined for your bed, and I want her.’

  With a supreme effort Gillet met the Prince’s gaze. ‘Then you sever the last strand of our friendship by your own hand. You, alone, knew what she meant to me.’

  Edward stood to full height and glared down. ‘Count yourself fortunate you will not decorate the courtyard! You are to depart as soon as your injuries permit. I spare you only because when you returned to my service you told me, “Give me not the matters of the crown to carry. They weigh too heavily in my pack.” Your honour is enviable, Ghillebert d’Albret, but it may also one day be your downfall.’ The Prince moved to the door and rapped against the timber. He turned back to look at his prisoner. ‘With all the matters of the kingdom that have lain between us, who would have thought we would lose our friendship over a woman?’

  As the Prince departed, Gillet leaned back and closed his eyes. His body was burning on the inside with the heat of a smithy’s den but waves of shivering rippled his skin with gooseflesh. Edward had not taken Cécile d’Armagnac from him, not really. This time it had been his own stupid fault. She would never forgive him for deceiving her about being an Albret. Curling himself into a ball of pain, he prayed for oblivion.

  Edward returned upstairs, brushing aside any regret he felt for the loss of an old friend. Instead he concentrated upon his gain but he could not ignore that Gillet de Bellegarde was a real threat. Given enough encouragement he could have the man executed instead of exiled. At least that way Bellegarde would never be a problem again, only a distant childhood memory. Cécile d’Armagnac was another matter. In order to rekindle his relationship with her, he would have to take a chance and release his erstwhile companion, lest she never forgive him the alternative.

  His thoughts turned to the beautiful woman he held captive in his rooms above and the chill from the dungeon was quickly replaced by burning desire. He needed to bed her quickly and erase Gillet from her heart once and for all.

  A bloodcurdling scream tore him from his fantasy.

  ‘In God’s name, what is going on here?’

  Edward pushed his way through the crowd milling at the foot of the stairs. A woman lay upon the tiled floor, Salisbury beside her. The Prince’s eyes were drawn to the deep gash on Catherine’s exposed shoulder. ‘Someone get the physician. Get the physician!’ He knelt down.

  Catherine clung to Edward’s solid form as she tried to sit up.

  Vertigo and nausea engulfed her and groaning, she rested her head upon his shoulder. She heard the scurried footsteps of slippered feet and a man of dark persuasion appeared in her vision, his pupils widening as he gazed upon her face.

  ‘Come, little one. You must accompany me.’

  Edward watched, helpless, as she limped away, the ribbon in her hair falling to the floor as she leant against the physician.

  ‘What happened here?’ he roared. The crowd slunk back into the shadows.

  ‘I was escorting her, as directed, M’lord,’ mumbled Salisbury, ‘when she slipped and fell down the stairs.’

  ‘She slipped?’ Edward’s eyes narrowed. ‘Or you pushed her?’

  ‘M’lord! Are you suggesting that I would deliberately—’

  ‘For months I have listened to your petty grievances,’ interjected the Black Prince. ‘Over and over again we hear you bleat about the temptress who stole your fortune and good name. Perhaps you saw this as your opportunity to take revenge.’

  ‘But. Sire, things are not what they appear.’

  ‘I gave you a simple task – escort the Lady d’Armagnac to the hall – and instead I find her lying injured at the foot of the stairs.’ The Prince raised his fist and struck the knight in the face. ‘Get out, you fool!’

  Salisbury reeled, wiping the blood from his lip. ‘Will you not hear me out?’ he spluttered.

  ‘I cannot trust myself to keep my blade sheathed!’

  ‘Surely you do not intend to toss me aside for a cheap whore?’

  ‘One more word, Salisbury, and I will cut out your tongue!’

  Edward marched off in the direction taken by the physician, pausing beside the guards posted at the entrance to the hallway. ‘If William of Salisbury has not removed himself from the castle within ten minutes you have my permission to use his balls for whatever sport takes your fancy!’

  Salisbury stumbled to his feet, his face white with fury. He mumbled a string of curses under his breath, then spat on the floor before stomping off to his suite.

  Edward gazed down upon the pale face and his hand curled into a fist. He really would have that bastard castrated if she suffered.

  The soft-spoken physician pulled up the bedcover and relinquished his place at her side. ‘I have given her a sedative, Sire. She sleeps with peace.’

  ‘Her wounds?’ demanded Edward.

  ‘Are superficial, milord.’ Tariq discreetly moved to the chest where his cups and potions were strewn.

  Edward sat down upon the bed and brushed aside the hair on Catherine’s forehead. He leaned forward and kissed her gently. ‘God willing, Cécile, we shall be together soon,’ he whispered. Then he stood. ‘Alert me the moment she wakes.’

  Tariq bowed as Edward quit the chamber.

  Catherine tried to focus on the scene above her. The hazy blu
e sky shimmered into the outline of a damask bed canopy and the distant fields and flowers became the stitched tapestries lining the stone walls, the forest floor beneath nothing more than a decadent swathing of fur rugs. She had fainted, of that she was sure. Her eyes widened as a tall, dark -skinned man, his scalp covered with a tiny wool cap, bent over her.

  ‘This has certainly been a night of surprises,’ he announced, resting his cool fingers upon her forehead. ‘Fear not, Madame. My name is Tariq and I am the Prince’s physician. Do you recall taking a fall upon the stairs?’ At her nod, he perched on the bed to count her pulse. Satisfied with the beats he folded his arms within the wide sleeves of his blue silk tunic that was gathered by a gaudy yellow sash. ‘You suffer no broken bones but I stitched a deep cut on your shoulder.’ He studied her closely, arching one brow. ‘I should also mention that you have given birth to a fine, healthy pillow.’ He watched the startled eyes flood with fear and patted her hand. ‘Perhaps you should start by telling me your name and why it is that the Prince thinks you are the Lady Cécile. I am honour-bound by my profession to keep your confidence and I seek news of your twin’s health.’

  Catherine looked up at the lean apparition and feeling the warmth emanating from his somewhat mischievous smile, she shyly returned it. ‘My name is Catherine Pembroke. How did you know that Cécile is my twin?’

  ‘Ah, I saw your sister recently and the child I examined was very much flesh and blood. I was also called to attend upon a certain Gillet de Bellegarde earlier this night. He told me he hoped Cécile was on her way to England.’

  ‘And God willing, she is, sir,’ answered Catherine sliding up the bolster and groaning with the effort.

  ‘Please call me Tariq,’ he said, assisting her to sit up. ‘Easy now.’ He offered a cup of wine.

  Catherine drank thirstily, returning the goblet to his keeping as she murmured, ‘My sister once sacrificed herself for me and now I have been able to return the favour. I did not wish for her to fall back into the hands of the Black Prince.’