The Order of the Lily Page 5

  ‘So you took her place? That was very brave, Mademoiselle, but for how long do you think to trick his Grace with this pretence?’

  ‘I had foolishly hoped long enough for Gillet to escape or be released.’ Catherine grasped Tariq’s sleeve. ‘Please, the Prince must not learn of this.’

  Tariq regarded her sternly. ‘Your sister’s health is fragile, as I informed her. But yours will be no less so when the Prince learns his heir is nothing more than goose feathers, Mademoiselle.’

  Catherine leaned back against the pillow and winced as she moved her arm. ‘In truth, I gave it no thought. I had but a moment to make my decision and my sister had no choice in the matter.’ She blinked up at him, her blue eyes wide. ‘I could not let him take her again. She would not survive. Please,’ she begged, grasping his hand, ‘Will you not help me?’

  Tariq smoothed his pointed beard. ‘You place me in a difficult position, Lady Catherine.’

  ‘I am sure Lord Wexford will come for me. The Prince must not find out that Cécile is in England. Please, Tariq,’ she whispered softly, ‘will you not help us?’

  ‘I will be at great risk to do so but I am not unsympathetic to the situation and I spoke at length with Monsieur Gillet.’

  ‘Gillet must be told that I am not Céci or else he will never leave for Kent. And, most important,’ she grabbed his sleeve, ‘he must learn that my sister loves him still.’

  Tariq collected the small pillow and paused. ‘With that much I can help you for I must tend his wounds daily. But even if he is released tomorrow, he will not be well enough to travel for at least a week. How do you suppose to keep the Prince at bay?’

  ‘I do not know. Deception is not an art I practise well,’ sighed Catherine.

  ‘I am bound by oath to save lives,’ said Tariq, considering the bolster in his hand. ‘But all too often we lose one.’ His sharp eyes lit up and fixed upon the woman in the bed. ‘Might I suggest, Lady Catherine, that your fall may yet have a most serious consequence. Under such circumstances I would suggest that the mother-to-be requires rest, lest any further harm come to her unborn child. No visitors but for the daily attendance of her physician.’ He smiled conspiratorially.

  Catherine stared at Tariq, her voice falling to a whisper. ‘It would keep the Prince from my bed for now, but I am sure Salisbury suspects the truth. What are we to do if he chooses to share his suspicions?’

  The man before her bowed. ‘My daughter, to reach an oasis first you must tread across the hot sands of the desert. To succeed, you must have faith. Perhaps together we shall take one step at a time? For now we must ensure his Grace does not discover the difference between twins.’

  In the privacy of her chamber, Catherine breathed a sigh of relief and sent a hurried prayer of thanks for her surprising salvation – a dark-skinned heathen sent by God. Disorientated, she examined the length of shadow on the floor. Her shoulder ached with renewed discomfort and, unable to look directly into the bright sunlight, she rolled tentatively towards the stone wall.

  Tariq’s plan was brilliant. The Black Prince would not invade the sanctuary of her bed if he believed her in danger of suffering a miscarriage. It was almost sufficient reason to thank Salisbury for his intervention, if not for the injuries she had sustained. Simon would not be expecting such an obstacle. She had to recover, and quickly, for surely Simon would not leave her unprotected for too long.

  By dawn the Albret manor house was shrouded in a deathly silence. Behind her door, Cécile was frantic for news. Veronique had not returned nor had Cécile heard the tell-tale jingle of harness as horses were being saddled. Her staunch vigilance upon the stable, visible from her casement, had been in vain. Either the captain, Alfred, had chosen to ignore her request or else Veronique had not delivered the message. Unable yet to face whatever lay outside her door, Cécile curled up on the bed, weary beyond words. She could shed no more tears. Margot’s screaming had ceased but no wail of a babe had replaced it. It made the ominous stillness even more terrifying.

  Sometime later a constant tapping woke Cécile from the exhausted sleep into which she had fallen. She bolted for the door at the sound of Veronique’s voice. The maid averted her eyes subserviently and bobbed a curtsey. ‘Monsieur demands your immediate presence below.’

  Cécile’s stomach churned sickeningly. ‘And Margot? The babe? Why did you not return for me?’

  Veronique’s voice quavered and she looked as though she had been crying. ‘Please, do not keep his lordship waiting.’ She bobbed again and scurried away before Cécile could ask anything further.

  The sun had risen in the sky but it was not yet noon. Cécile splashed her face with water from the ewer and took a deep breath. ‘Courage, Cécile d’Armagnac, courage.’ She brushed her gown into respectability and, steeling her nerves, made her way downstairs.

  She paused at the entrance to the hall, feeling as though she were about to enter a lion’s den. The last time she had felt thus she had been standing on the threshold of the Prince’s chamber, doomed to lose her innocence. What was she to lose this time? What more could anyone take?

  With her heart beating like a tabor, Cécile entered the hall only to find herself facing two beasts, not one. The chairs from the hearth had been turned to face the centre of the room, and beside Arnaud sat a creature whose round body was draped in voluminous robes of gaudy green from which dangled little legs wearing pointed, pumpkin-coloured shoes. He resembled a troll from one of Armand’s stories. Hair sprang from the man’s scalp in windblown tufts, and his brows bristled like fat caterpillars across his forehead, but it was the bulbous, pitted nose that lent his features a true goblin mien. He held up his goblet and his lips smacked appreciatively against his teeth.

  ‘You are right, milord. One of the best wines I have ever tasted!’ he exclaimed delightedly.

  ‘Then consider a barrel yours,’ crooned Arnaud. ‘It is the least I can do for having disrupted your day. Ah, here is the lady in question now.’

  Two sets of eyes turned upon Cécile, one pair glittering with abhorrence, the other with a curious interest.

  ‘Arnaud, please, I beseech you,’ begged Cécile. ‘How fares Margot?’

  ‘My wife , Marguerite, is resting, having delivered us a son,’ he clipped tightly. ‘Born at first light … dead as a doornail.’

  Cécile stumbled to the stool and lowered herself. Slowly, she made the sign of the cross, then folded her arms protectively over her stomach. ‘God have mercy.’

  ‘You would do better to beg this man’s mercy,’ replied Arnaud. ‘I present our bailiff, Lord Felton, who has come to hear your case.’

  Her head jerked. ‘My case?’

  Arnaud smiled lecherously, his calm manner suddenly more frightening than his raging temper. ‘Yes.’ He refilled Lord Felton’s cup. ‘Make it two barrels.’

  Lord Felton’s shiny cheeks puffed out with pleasure. What the man lacked in height he more than compensated with self-importance. ‘I am a busy man, Lady d’Armagnac, and,’ he coughed politely, ‘er, due to the delicate nature of this incident, I have agreed to hear the facts outside my chambers.’ His vicious little eyes snapped to Cécile’s. ‘I trust that you will not waste my time. Ah, here is Father John, we can begin. You may remain seated, Lady.’

  The cleric, dressed in the humble robes of his Cluniac order trod softly into the hall. He was followed by two soldiers, clad in hauberks and armed with halberds. They remained by the door.

  ‘Your wife is sleeping peacefully,’ the priest informed Arnaud. ‘A Mass will be said this afternoon.’ He accepted a cup of wine and shuffled to the window alcove where he sat heavily, the burden of his morning’s sad work etched in deep lines upon his face. ‘How may I be of service in this other matter?’

  Lord Felton cleared his throat. ‘Merely as a church official, Father, an observer to the proceedings, as it were. Lord d’Albret has explained the incidents prior to his wife’s fall, and he has demanded that Lady d’Armagnac be served, und
er common law, the punishment that is warranted for her interference.’

  ‘Punishment?’ Cécile leaped to her feet.

  At a twitch of the bailiff’s head, the soldiers flanked her. Strong hands clamped onto her shoulders and she was forced to her knees.

  ‘Lord d’Albret claims that your wilful disobedience directly led to the Lady d’Albret’s accident and, consequently, to the death of his heir. Lady d’Armagnac, these are serious charges.

  How do you answer them?’

  ‘I … I … removed an instrument of torture from her head, it is true. She was encased in a …’

  ‘Bridle, yes, of that I am aware,’ interrupted Lord Felton with impatience, his voice growing louder. ‘It is a method of restraint that a man is quite within his rights to use. However, it is not the right of a woman to remove it!’

  ‘But she was with child!’ exclaimed Cécile in disbelief. ‘And he beats her! I have seen the bruises. He even attacked me.’

  ‘Once again, as her husband, he is at liberty to do so, within reason. Women must be kept in their rightful place and, living under his roof with no other lord in attendance,’ he paused to mockingly look around the room, ‘you fall under his jurisdiction. Is it correct that you directly disobeyed Lord d’Albret by entering his wife’s chamber when he had specifically forbidden you to do so?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Then,’ he stated firmly, not allowing her to finish, ‘you admit your guilt.’ He leaned forward, tiny droplets glistening on his nose adding to his macabre appearance. ‘Mademoiselle, your behaviour had serious consequences. An heir has been lost, and where would we be if we allowed our women to rail against our authority? The next thing you know, they would have it in their heads to make and change laws! You would be roaming the streets in packs, like wolves, spreading your poisonous rumours, the sanity of men severely impeded.’ He shook his fist ferociously and struck the arm of the chair, his voice rising. ‘A woman’s tongue is guided by the Devil! Give them eloquence and there lay the way to promiscuity. It is for the likes such as you that we have these laws. Should we allow your kind to go unpunished, unfettered or unbeaten, we would find ourselves eventually ruled by a mob of demented females, and where, I ask you, would we be then!’

  Cécile’s legs began to tremble and a cold sweat had her chemise clinging like a second skin. Staring up into the malevolent faces that clearly believed she had erred, she felt a cornerstone of her foundation shifting. Her upbringing had been one of confidences within a loving and nurtured home, the women freely adding opinions that were oft considered to hold merit. Her papa, Comte d’Armagnac, used to wink and say, ‘Find a wife with no words worth hearing and you will find an ignorant man at her side. The trick is to separate the chatter from the matter.’

  A harrumphing sounded from the window alcove. ‘Lord Felton,’ interrupted the priest, ‘far be it for the church to interfere in common law, but I must insist and advise, in my capacity as the Abbey’s physician, that the mademoiselle cannot be held accountable for the death of the child. I, myself, have witnessed the midwife’s evidence that would acquit her of this.’

  ‘That is not acceptable!’ roared Arnaud, uncrossing his bouncing leg. He strained forward in his chair and pointed accusingly. ‘Because of her my wife fell, and went into delivery before her time.’

  ‘That may be so, Lord d’Albret,’ answered the priest calmly, ‘but the child did not die as a result of this fall. The birth cord was looped around his neck. He was strangled in the womb. I have seen such things before. It is God’s providence.’

  ‘Or Satan’s,’ spat Arnaud, staring at Cécile. ‘The cord must have pulled tight when my wife fell!’

  The bailiff held up his hand to silence further arguments. ‘I am not called upon to discuss divine intervention. I am here to deal with justice.’

  ‘Is that what you suppose this to be?’ said Cécile, rising to her feet. The priest’s words had given her hope. ‘This man mis-treats his wife, whips me like a dog, and I am to be punished? Can I not cry injustice? Must a woman’s tongue be stilled by torture because you wish not to hear her words of prejudice? You have a strange system of reckoning that which is right from that which you perceive to be wrong. When a woman cannot reach out to stave another’s pain and suffering and offer comfort in her time of need …’

  Arnaud sat back with a malicious smile and Cécile fell silent. She realised with misgivings that her outburst had just satisfied any doubts the bailiff may have harboured.

  ‘I think the pond,’ he said, turning to Arnaud. ‘Five should do it.’

  ‘Make it ten. No, Father,’ warned Arnaud, shooting a glance over to the priest. ‘This is now a civil matter.’

  Lord Felton lifted his goblet and sipped, pointedly licking the rim of the cup. ‘Extremely good wine. Five.’

  ‘Three barrels, a mule ride under common gaze, and ten.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘There will be no time for the town crier.’

  ‘I’ll forego it.’

  ‘Done.’ The bailiff’s teeth gleamed amid his whiskers as he plumped himself up like a feathered goose centrepiece. ‘It just so happens, knowing a thing or two of these matters, that I brought the mule with me.’ He raised his cup in salute and downed the contents, then rose from the chair, nodding to the soldiers. ‘Strip her.’

  Unable to believe her ears, Cécile had barely opened her mouth to protest when a blade slashed the laces of her gown. Her clothing was dragged from her body in seconds and there was a collective startled murmur when her condition was revealed. They all froze. With a sob, Cécile fell to her knees, shaking. She picked up her chemise and clutched it to her breast. Then all hell broke loose.

  ‘She is with child!’ screeched the bailiff. ‘Who is responsible?’

  ‘Good Lord!’ Arnaud shot out of his chair and grabbed Cécile’s arm. He shook her hard. ‘Is this why Ghillebert sent you here? Are you carrying his seed?’

  The priest lurched forward to intervene. ‘My daughter, this makes it a matter for the church. Was this adultery? We will have the perpetrator’s name.’

  ‘Who is the father?’ roared Lord Felton.

  ‘I knew it, you little strumpet!’ screamed Arnaud. ‘You are an Armagnac spy!’

  Cécile sank to her haunches with a cry and clapped her hands over her ears, rocking. They were coming at her from all sides.

  ‘You must confess your sins, child.’

  ‘Who is the father?’

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Visions rose before her of the one man who had promised her protection, and she began to pray in earnest. ‘Help me, Gillet. Please help me.’

  ‘Have you committed adultery?’

  ‘Who is the father?’

  ‘Gillet!’ screamed Cécile.

  The room fell silent. Lord Felton sank into his chair, and stared at Arnaud.

  ‘If my brother is responsible, then this is a family matter,’ growled Arnaud. ‘Father John, since Ghillebert is unwed, this is clearly not adultery. Stupidity maybe. I thank you for your time this morning.’ Turning his back in dismissal, he towered over Lord Felton. ‘This changes nothing, except that now we know we chastise an interfering whore!’

  The bailiff looked uncertain, and strummed his bottom lip. ‘Are you sure you wish to proceed? Your brother will not like it.’

  ‘Leave my brother to me,’ stormed Arnaud. ‘God damn it. Four barrels of wine!’

  ‘Very well.’

  Father John stepped forward hesitantly. ‘What of her child?’

  Arnaud sneered, his teeth bared like a wolf about to spring. ‘Shall we not leave that to God’s providence?’

  For the rest of her life Cécile would remember the ride through Chilham. She had been given back her chemise, and with it, a small measure of courage returned. Arnaud and Lord Felton sat waiting, the latter on his diminutive pony.

  The guard tying Cécile’s hands shot him a look of disgust and growled,
‘The only reason ’e likes draggin’ women ’round on a mule is ’cause it makes ‘em shorter than ’im!’

  A crowd gathered behind the odd procession, their growing interest turning to enthusiasm, slanderous comments vocalised with increasing zeal as they tagged along behind. A mangy dog snapped at the beast’s legs, encouraged by a gaggle of laughing children. Something hit Cécile’s shoulder and mud slid down her breast. The degradation was unbearable but from the mists of her mind sprung a vision of her father, Comte Jean d’Armagnac.

  ‘Papa, forgive me for bringing more shame upon you,’ she whispered.

  Her eyes welled and she squeezed them tightly shut to stop the tears. From somewhere deep inside a hammer struck upon an anvil of ironwill. She had done nothing wrong. Her blood was noble. She was raised Armagnac and Armagnacs had ever stood by their beliefs. All she was guilty of was relieving another woman’s suffering. Whatever was to come, she would not cower.

  They turned from the main street and descended a slop-ing bank where two soldiers were manœuvring a wheeled, wooden platform to the lake’s edge. From the centre of the construction rose a long post with a pivoting crossbeam. Ropes hung from either end, the shorter rope dangling a seat. A cucking chair!

  ‘No,’ gasped Cécile. Her heart crawled up her chest to cringe in her throat and her face paled to ashen grey. She had yet to make her peace with water.

  Arnaud swivelled in his saddle and grinned pompously, but his captive’s gaze was fastened upon the dark ripples of the lake. A lone duck, resentful of the noisy intrusion to its haven, honked loudly and flapped into the sky.

  The soldiers pulled the trembling woman from the mule to the contraption and began to tie her into the chair. Cécile was frozen with fear. The crowd buzzed with anticipation and Lord Felton judged the moment ripe to make his speech. The men murmured with approval when he mentioned the scold’s bridle and as he described Cécile’s condition there were fierce glances of disgust from the women. Lord Felton’s portrayal of a wanton was so effective that one woman broke from the crowd to spit in Cécile’s face.