The Order of the Lily Read online

  The bailiff, delighted with the attention, suddenly felt the need to relieve himself. He glanced at the bordering shrub-bery. ‘Lord, I need to piss,’ he chuckled to Arnaud. ‘Too much blasted wine!’ He headed for the bushes, calling over his shoulder, ‘Proceed.’

  The guard tying the rope around Cécile’s waist scowled as Lord Felton disappeared behind the hedge. He looked down at his shivering prisoner and whispered. ‘Courage, lass. Never ’eld much with this kind o’ treatment, meself.’ He glanced to where Arnaud stood, arms folded, glowing with satisfaction. ‘Or ’im, just quietly. Village is always disrupted when ’e comes to stay. Sell ’is own mother t’ the Devil, if it suited ’is purpose. Four barrels o’ wine.’ He spat into the dirt, his hand briefly resting on Cécile’s arm. ‘Ye just remember to take a deep breath when ye feel y’self goin’ down. ’Tis not meant to kill ye but ten dunks all at once is more ’an I’ve ever heard afore.’

  The pond shimmered silver with shadows of black, dark and threatening, lying beneath the surface. Cécile nodded but already she was finding it difficult to breathe. Her heart was thumping as the platform was wheeled to the water’s edge and the chair raised.

  Memories of the Seine rushed back, intensifying Cécile’s fear one hundredfold. The chair dropped and she splashed into the freezing water. She held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut tight, and began to count. Her lungs contracted and though she was desperate to inhale, she concentrated on her numbers until she felt herself rising. As she broke free of the surface she gasped frantically for air. Her eyes stung and she began to shiver uncontrollably. Then she felt her stomach heave and the chair plummeted once more to the sound of cheering. This time she glimpsed the blackness beneath, and strange slivers of light pierced her eyes. Her skin seared her flesh and she wondered at the absurdity of glacial cold having the power to burn.

  By the fifth dousing her hair was unwound and tangled with pond weed. Her limbs were numb and non-existent. She rose for the sixth time, chilled by the wind, her chest heaving, and the crowd heard her pitiful sob.

  ‘God help me!’ It was obvious to all that Cécile would not catch her breath before the chair fell again. The crowd gasped as she disappeared into the murky depths. Even the women who had only earlier brandished fists, now held their hands over their mouths whilst counting. Some crossed themselves for fear of the worst. None saw her as an evil wanton now, only a wretched woman near to drowning. There, but for the grace of their husbands, went any one of them.

  ‘Pull her up!’ came a cry from the back. ‘She’s paid her due!’

  Another chimed in and the fickle crowd began to chant. ‘Pull her up! Pull her up!’

  No one heard the pounding of horse’s hooves upon the ridge. The chair rose into the air but Cécile was slouched forward, smothered in her hair and not moving. Their chants ignored, the subdued crowd fell silent as it watched the contraption lower for a seventh time.

  ‘Out of my way!’

  The crowd fell back at the arrival of eight more soldiers, their leader determined to make his way to the cucking platform. ‘Haul up that chair! Now.’ Murmurs rippled through the gathering as the young man, dressed in black, drew his sword. Lord Felton rushed from the bushes, pulling up his hose. ‘Oh Lord,’ he gasped. He watched as Arnaud’s sword clashed against the intruder’s blade, then darting a furtive look at the crowd, crept back into the verge to shoo the half-naked woman he’d been entertaining.

  The villagers began to shout as the two men fought, this new entertainment more to their liking. The cucking chair was raised to ground level and one of the newly arrived soldiers pulled out his dagger and cut the young woman’s bonds.

  Cécile fell into his arms, unconscious or worse.

  Both men were panting hard by the time Arnaud found himself staring down the length of the blade, the tip threatening to pierce his throat. He dropped his sword and held up his hands.

  ‘It would seem, brother, that your swordplay has greatly improved. Welcome home, Ghillebert.’

  With the help of a kitchen servant girl called Minette, Veronique had the wooden tub removed as Cécile slid her arms into the cosy warmth of a woollen robe. She sat before the hastily lit fire in her chamber and Veronique began to briskly dry her hair and comb out the tangles.

  ‘How’s Margot?’ asked Cécile.

  ‘Better than you, milady.’ Veronique twisted a hank to squeeze out more water but a sob escaped her lips and she fell to her knees, pleading. ‘I swear, milady, I didn’t know what milord was about. He said he would have me horsewhipped if I said one word on Madame’s condition, and I was scared he would do it. He said he only wanted to talk with you. If I had known what was in his evil mind …’

  Cécile laid her hand upon Veronique. ‘Why did you not come back for me yesterday?’

  ‘I could not find your men! Then Monsieur caught me. Honest, milady.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘And now his lordship is down there interrogating all the servants. I know my turn is coming. I swear I did not mean to put you in harm’s way.’

  ‘Arnaud is questioning the servants?’

  ‘No. No one has seen hide nor hair of Seigneur Arnaud. I mean the other lord – his brother, the man who saved you. He arrived here this very morning, after you were taken away. Symond and I had just discovered your soldiers locked into the cellar.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Fine state of affairs, I can tell you! They rode from here like the Devil was after them when we told what had happened. Then his Lordship came back in a temper fit to burst, and carrying you, limp in his arms. Oh, Lady d’Armagnac,’ she wailed. ‘I thought you were dead!’

  Cécile felt the blood draining from her face. ‘The man who saved me was Arnaud’s brother? Which one?’

  ‘Why, Monsieur Ghillebert, of course.’

  ‘Gillet is here?’ exclaimed Cécile, feeling her heart skip several beats.

  ‘Oui, Mademoiselle, oui. He ordered your bath, and said he will be up to see you shortly.’

  ‘Then for God’s sake hurry, Veronique. Attend me, quickly!’

  When the knock sounded at her door, Cécile stood tentatively, having spent the last half hour alone, reshuffling words in her head. Gillet stepped into the room, dressed entirely in black, his expression sombre. The last time they had faced one another, she had just learned he was Albret.

  Cécile shifted nervously. ‘You look like a wraith come to collect a soul owed to Hades. Are you not pleased to see me?’

  ‘Is there nowhere I can send you, Lady, where you will not land yourself in deep water, literally this time?’

  Cécile flinched. ‘That depends upon where you send me, sir. I had not thought to find myself supping with Satan!’ ‘And I had so much choice in the matter, chained as I was to a dungeon wall.’ Gillet paced to the table and poured two cups, graciously holding one out. ‘Christ Almighty! I go half-crazy imagining you in Edward’s arms only to find out your sister has taken your place. Then, when I’m finally released, I ride like a madman to get here only to find you being dunked in the river like last week’s dirty linen. Lady, you are worse than the plague!’

  ‘And you … are a … a … festering carbuncle! Have done with this, Lord d’Albret,’ she snatched the goblet from his hand. ‘Send me home then.’

  Spots of colour rose high on Gillet’s cheeks. ‘What you did was wrong, Cécile. I understand the way of it but, in helping Margot, you placed yourself in a serious predicament.’

  ‘I placed myself? Was it not you who said I would be safe in Kent? You, who withheld the name of Albret?’ she retaliated.

  Gillet’s chin jerked with surprise. ‘Did Armand not explain? It was done for the same reason that I do everything for you – for your protection.’

  ‘Of course,’ snorted Cécile. ‘And I considered that as I greeted Poseidon’s nymphs underwater! I even managed to have a chat with one and asked her politely if she had seen you thereabouts. “He’s supposed to be protecting me,” I told her.’

  ‘You little shrew
! And yet there I was – undoing what your improvident actions had caused.’

  ‘And just how did you manage such a feat, milord? Did you persuade the Bailiff with your silver tongue and sugared words, as you did me for the last three months?’

  ‘No, I told him that he stood to lose his head should the Earl of Kent find out he was drowning the good man’s daughter, sent home incognito, until Sir Thomas, himself, knew what to do with you.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Be at peace, Lady,’ muttered Gillet wearily. ‘Felton is shaking in his own skin. He would not dare breathe a word of this.’

  ‘And Arnaud? How did he greet such profound information?’

  Gillet growled with disgust. ‘My brother has gone, no doubt to Amanieu to complain long and loud of my interference.’

  ‘He’s gone?’

  ‘Oui, like the cockroach he is, scuttling into the darkness.’

  Cécile’s voice softened. ‘You hold sway over your brother?’

  ‘No!’ snapped Gillet. ‘I held a sword against his throat!’ But the recall brought a brief smile of conceit to his lips.

  ‘What of Margot?’

  ‘It would seem she has been abandoned to my care. Pray be that she is not so wilfully disobedient.’

  ‘Oh Gillet, you did not see her,’ protested Cécile, her anger falling away. ‘That thing strapped to her head like she was some animal. I have never seen the like.’ Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘Her only crime was to speak to me of your family.’

  ‘Lady,’ Gillet’s tone was cold, ‘I saw the scratches clawed into Arnaud’s face.’

  Cécile shrugged. ‘I objected to being bartered for four barrels of Madiran wine. I am worth at least six. Does his attack on me count for nothing, sir?’

  Gillet’s goblet thudded to the table. ‘By law Arnaud was within his rights. And Felton will be returning the wine. He would gladly walk on hot coals to be rid of this whole business.’

  ‘And how did you explain this?’ asked Cécile, running her hand over her modest swelling.

  ‘I had no need,’ he retorted dryly. ‘Apparently, it’s mine.’ Gillet collapsed onto a stool and raked his hand through his hair, defeat oozing from every pore. ‘How in God’s name am I to deal with this?’ His head lifted in sudden contrition. ‘The child, will it suffer from this day’s work?’

  ‘Apart from being tossed like a hotcake, no, I think we have survived nicely. Thank you for asking.’

  An uncomfortable silence grew, Gillet staring at the jug of mulled wine as though it contained poison.

  ‘And what of us, Céci?’ he finally whispered. ‘Did we survive?’

  The warmth from the fire was blasting Gillet so he unfastened his doublet, grimacing as he pulled one arm from the sleeve.

  Cécile gasped when she saw his shirt, splotched with aging bloodstains, and the thick padding beneath. ‘Your injuries!’ she cried, moving with wifely concern to help him discard the outer garment. Her intention had been to inspect the wound, but Gillet’s arms encircled her waist and he burrowed against her breasts, inhaling deeply.

  ‘So, you remember at last that I am an injured man,’ he murmured. His breath warmed her skin and sent shivers to her toes.

  Cécile traced the large, stitched cut above his brow, the cheek below it mulberry purple with bruising. ‘Of course I did.’ Her hands slid into the raven hair and his grip at her waist tightened.

  ‘Mercy, Cécile,’ he whispered huskily. ‘Tell me that for the burden of bearing the name Albret, I have not lost you.’ He stood and drew her lips to his. Finding no resistance, Gillet kissed her. He lifted her into his arms and, kicking the stool out of his way, carried her to the hearth. Laying her on the fur in front of the fire, he swiftly divested himself of his shirt, and gathered her into his arms.

  ‘Lady, when I saw you unconscious, I feared the worst.’ He covered her eyelids with tiny butterfly kisses, ‘Why, in God’s name, do you torture me so?’ He kissed her mouth with the familiarity of ownership and Cécile sighed as he gently prised open her robe and explored with the intimacy of a lover.

  Coaxed and lured, before long she was arching, quivering for release like a tightly strung bow. She trembled beneath his experienced touch. She was a lyre in the hands of an accomplished musician and he knew exactly which notes to pluck.

  ‘Gillet,’ she panted, ‘please.’

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ growled Gillet, finally claiming the release his own body craved.

  The lovers lay entwined, bathing in the afterglow, their ener-gies spent. Cécile’s hand stroked the wad of padding across Gillet’s chest. ‘You suffered this because of me,’ she whispered. ‘Was it at the inn, after you sent me to the boat?’

  ‘Yes.’ His smiled crookedly. ‘Despite my boast, I could not outrun the soldiers.’ His hand slid over her belly and hers fell atop his.

  ‘Edward and his child will always be between us, Gillet. As will Anaïs. She will hold sway over you and will not hesitate to destroy us.’

  His jaw clenched tight. ‘Anaïs can hurt us no more, but there is the child.’ He raised her chin and stared intently into her eyes. ‘I would have it raised under my own roof. Would you be a mother to a bastard child of Anaïs’?’

  ‘No.’

  Gillet nodded as though he had anticipated the response but Cécile took his hand and kissed the palm. ‘But I would be mother to a child of yours, Gillet. We could raise our infants together, and know ourselves as mother and father to both.’

  Gillet’s chest rose and fell in a long sigh of relief.

  ‘Thank you, Céci,’ he whispered. ‘Thank you.’ His mouth fastened upon hers with such ardour that it was not long before they were oblivious to all else once more.

  The shadows grew long and, cosseted in each other’s arms, pearled in sweat, they listened to the soft crackling of the fire. Time did not exist, only the gentle kisses and sighs of lovers.

  Reverently spreading Cécile’s hair over his chest, Gillet combed it with his fingers. ‘Fair damsel with the golden mantle,’ he crooned. ‘Had Jason known of such a mane, he would have left the fleece hanging on the tree.’

  Cécile felt a tiny pulling along her scalp. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Playing a besotted lover,’ smiled Gillet. ‘I’m braiding your hair. No, you do not laugh. I do not usually accord my mistresses this honour.’

  ‘And where did you learn such a noble profession?’ Cécile laughed, in spite of his warning.

  ‘I have four sisters, my love.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘And on the battle field, I am oft called upon for my skill, to dress the horses for war.’

  ‘Sisters! Mon Dieu. Gillet, how could I forget?’ Cécile sat up hurriedly, the plait slipping from Gillet’s hand. ‘What happened to Catherine?’

  ‘Hush, my sweet. By God’s good fortune she is yet safe, both physically and from Edward’s bed, though it grieved me to leave her behind. I was escorted onto the boat and that left little chance for me to do anything but Tariq assured me Catherine’s rescue awaited my departure. Simon would not allow Edward the chance to play us against one another.’ He watched Cécile’s disappointment and pulled her into his arms.

  Cécile released her breath on a long sigh. ‘So Simon has a chance?’

  ‘Every chance in the world, my sweet. In fact your sister is probably in his arms as we speak.’

  ‘Gillet?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Why did you never tell me Catherine and I were identical?’

  Gillet’s eyes were closing in euphoric slumber. ‘The less anyone knew, the safer for you both. Besides you could not be more different in my eyes.’

  ‘Gillet?’ Cécile drew her hair over her shoulder and inspected the clever workmanship. ‘What you said before? Am I really your mistress?’

  His eyes flickered open and he grinned. ‘For some reason the whole village of Chilham seems to think so.’

  ‘Yes, but what say you?’

  He tilted her chin to meet his lips. �
�I say, why disappoint them?’

  Overpriced prostitutes bargained with drunken sailors on the muddied streets of Calais as the population trebled overnight. French made way for English as enemies rubbed shoulders, each pensively awaiting the ratification of the Treaty of Brétigny. Mercenaries gathered in dark corners to discuss their future, fearing that their skills were now obsolete. Simon Marshall mingled with them, seeking both anonymity and intimate knowledge of the inner precinct of Calais Castle.

  He squeezed his way into a game of dice and deliberately lost his remaining coins, all the while fostering the friendship of the younger man beside him. Several hours later, the inebriated youth had told him everything he needed to know.

  Simon made his way to a smaller establishment closer to the waterfront, The Oar and Anchor. The innkeeper nodded as he passed through the alcove and made his way to the rooms above. The servants had cleaned the bloodstains from the floor and removed the soiled bedding. Nothing remained of the fight that had taken place within the same walls only days earlier.

  Simon tossed his cloak onto the stool, then pushed open the shutter that overlooked the dock. Calais Castle dominated the skyline, as impenetrable as a virgin in a chastity belt. Catherine’s image appeared, but he chased it away. He had to remain focused, for if he thought long enough on her fate he was sure he would run mad.

  A tavern maid appeared at the door bearing a full jug and tray. ‘You ordered victuals, M’lord?’

  ‘Yes, leave them on the table but bring more goblets. I am expecting guests.’ The maid nodded and left. He poured himself a generous serve of ale and gulped it down.

  It was not long before the men arrived. They had been gathering news from the castle.

  ‘The Prince released Gillet at noon.’ Mouse slumped onto the bed, goblet in one hand and a large chicken leg in the other. ‘We waited to see both he and Roderick safely away. They should arrive in England close to nightfall tomorrow.’