The Gilded Crown Read online

  The Papillon, unprepared to surrender their chase, surrounded the trestle, dancing on hind legs, their front paws scrambling for purchase against the dangling cloth. Above them, the fur-prickled quarry flew into frenzy and sent dishes skidding across the board, the gravy toppling over the Duc de Berri’s doublet. The orange flash darted toward Gillet and he grabbed its tail. Frightened beyond all reason, the cat spun, ten dagger-sharp claws slashing.

  ‘Merde! Poxy son of a bitch!’ Gillet quickly let go of the offending creature and knocked over his goblet. A waterfall of red wine splashed onto the carpet. The Duc, decorated with dripping sauce, also tried to capture the raucous intruders while the dogs howled in frustration. The red cat turned in its path and, yowling desperately, slipped upon the cloth, crashing into more tableware. The custard tart was launched from its perch to splatter into the Dowager Queen’s lap.

  Duc de Berri hastily grabbed the overturned candlestick, and in righting it, spilled hot wax over his hand. ‘Mother of God!’ he howled. Gillet rescued a meat platter from joining the contents of his goblet on the floor.

  ‘Non, non!’ sung out the Vicomtesse, gesturing to the servants trying to catch the cats. ‘Remove the dogs! Remove the dogs.’

  There were several anxious moments where the kitchen staff ran in circles gathering up the noisy mischief-makers. They were carried out, still barking. The growling felines slowly recovered their dignity.

  Gillet stared in horror at the decimation, unaware his clawed hand was dripping blood.

  ‘What absolutely stunning cats, but to whom do they belong?’ asked Blanche, lifting the creature nearest to her. With great foresight, the animal nestled itself under her chin and began to purr loudly.

  The orange cat settled itself in front of Gillet and demonically stared up at him, its tail swishing.

  As though waking from a nightmare, Gillet lifted his gaze, and Cécile felt the raw fury beneath his glare. ‘In God’s name, what are they doing here?’

  ‘Your wife’s pets, Monsieur?’ inquired Jean de Berri, brushing at his spattered doublet. ‘I pray not all of your belongings are so lacking in discipline.’

  Gillet bowed stiffly to the Vicomtesse and profusely began to apologise but he was silenced.

  ‘Monsieur de Bellegarde, first things first,’ said the Vicomtesse, lifting the tart pieces from her lap. Her eyes twinkled with barely concealed amusement. ‘Let us see to our immediate needs. You are bleeding, sir; your hand requires treatment. And Jean and I need to change our apparel. I see yours has also suffered.’ Blanche rose, addressing the servant hovering close by. ‘Escort Lady de Bellegarde to my reception room; she alone seems to have escaped harm. Then send Isabeau to Lord de Bellegarde’s chamber to attend his wound.’ She held up her furry bundle. ‘Your cats, Monsieur, what would have me do?’

  Gillet was tight-lipped as he addressed his wife. ‘I assume you brought with you some means of restraint?’

  ‘A … a basket,’ murmured Cécile, wringing her hands. ‘They must have escaped it.’

  The Vicomtesse handed Cinnamon to the servant. ‘Have the cats returned to their basket, Louis. Let us all reconvene in the reception room shortly.’ Her gaze rested upon Gillet. ‘Come, escort me, Lord de Bellegarde,’ she said softly. ‘And be not so harsh upon your wife. Never has my table danced with such a lively course!’

  Gillet bowed and presented his uninjured arm. ‘At your service, Madame. And yes, my wife possesses a most unique talent for serving the table’s subtlety,’ his glare seared Cécile, ‘with absolutely no subtlety whatsoever.’

  Alone in the reception room, Cécile spied the jug of wine. The temptation was too great and she poured herself a goblet. Perhaps this moment apart would give Gillet’s temper time to cool. She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. What was she thinking? A week would not be long enough! Her page, Trefor, must have forgotten to unpack the cats at the inn and they had arrived at Gisors in the cart. Well, she’d have words with him later. Meanwhile she steeled herself to greet which authority would walk through the door first – the former Queen, her former betrothed, or, she mused, maybe after today’s episode, her former husband!

  The Duc de Berri was the first to appear. Dressed in a clean doublet of dark-yellow brocade trimmed with fur, he looked like a leopard ready to pounce.

  Cécile sank into a curtsey.

  ‘Quite a performance, Cécile,’ he purred, ‘but by my reckoning, not your most astounding.’

  ‘Your Grace?’

  Stiff-backed, he poured himself a wine, then leaned upon the mantel. ‘When did you marry?’

  ‘Two months ago, your Grace.’

  ‘Two months?’ His eyes flashed with contempt. ‘And yet I believe you have already borne Bellegarde a child.’

  Unprepared for this attack, Cécile swallowed uneasily. ‘I … we … would have married sooner, but circumstances prevented it.’

  The Duc strode to where Cécile still kneeled. ‘You insult me, Madame!’

  Cécile looked up at him and her face softened. ‘And my sister, your wife, she is well, your Grace?’

  Jean inhaled sharply.

  Cécile rose and gently placed her hand on his arm. ‘If it is of any comfort, Jean, I, too suffered. The last twelvemonth was anything but easy.’

  ‘And do you suffer still?’ He struck out and grasped her chin. ‘I will answer that for you. No, you do not, for I see the way you look at him.’

  ‘Your Grace is offended.’

  The Duc stooped closer, his gaze fixed upon her lips. ‘My wife still plays with dolls. Our vows are spoken for the greater good of France, but my bed is cold at night.’ His whisper became dangerous. ‘Not once did you ever look at me that way.’

  ‘I trust my wife has not displeased you further, your Grace.’ Gillet stood in the doorway, his posture suggesting vigilance although his expression was carefully blank.

  The Duc de Berri relinquished his hold, and retrieving his wine, moved back to the mantel. ‘No, Lord de Bellegarde. Your wife does not displease me.’

  Gillet stepped to Cécile’s side, newly attired in a sober, black doublet woven with embossed roundels – a panther to face the covetous leopard. Gillet guided Cécile to the cushioned bench. ‘I believe that you wish to speak with me,’ he said, his tone flat.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the Duc. ‘I am told you know Ghillebert d’Albret.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘How well do you know him?’

  ‘I would trust him with my life.’

  ‘And do you know his present whereabouts?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  The Duc raised the jug of wine in offering. Gillet shook his head. ‘I understand he is in need of assistance. How much would you be willing to offer to help your friend?’

  Gillet looked from the Duc to his wife and back again. ‘I will not compromise myself for his liberty.’

  ‘You refuse to offer your service?’ The Duc’s brow arched.

  ‘My service I will gladly offer,’ retorted Gillet. His gaze pointedly wandered to his wife. ‘But mine alone.’

  The appearance of the Vicomtesse de Gisors stilled the Duc’s next words. Whatever they were, he gave second thought to airing them.

  ‘I can report, Lady de Bellegarde,’ said Blanche, cheerfully, ‘that your cats are safely delivered to your chambers. I must say that they are delightful creatures. From where did you get them?’

  Cécile glanced at Gillet’s stony profile. ‘They were a gift, Madame, from my husband.’

  ‘Highly unusual breeds, would you not say, Jean? The Duc prides himself upon his extensive menagerie,’ she explained, seating herself. ‘He collects all manner of amazing animals and artefacts and simply detests it when he cannot secure the acquisition of an item to his pleasing.’

  ‘I can imagine how that may make a man feel, Madame,’ said Gillet, stiltedly. ‘Of those you have secured, your Grace, have any ever managed to flee your restraint?’

  Jean de Berri’s eyes sparked. The leop
ard and the panther were stalking one another.

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes. A priceless little addition escaped last year as I was unable to properly secure its containment, but we know its whereabouts.’

  Delighted that the two men had found common ground at last, Blanche clapped her hands together. ‘Do you collect unusual animals also, Monsieur Gillet? If your assortment is as exquisite as your cats, you must be very proud.’

  Gillet inclined his head in appreciation of her compliment. ‘Unlike that of the Duc, Madame, my collection is extremely small. I only keep what truly captures my heart.’

  ‘Such as your horse,’ acknowledged Jean, stroking his chin. ‘A magnificent animal! A Barb, is it not? Quite rare in England. Forgive me for asking, but the infidels are not known for parting with their stock. One has to practically commit theft or murder to obtain such a beast. How did you come by it?’

  ‘The horse was a parting gift, your Grace,’ Gillet answered coolly, ‘from the wife of a close friend. I spent some time in Morocco, as a guest in their home.’

  Jean de Berri’s brows lifted. ‘What modesty, Bellegarde. Such a gift must have warranted some noble deed, surely? Did you save her from rogues? Put out a house fire? Or mayhap, warm her bed at night when her husband was absent?’

  Gillet laughed openly. ‘Nothing so gallant, your Grace. Amina’s kindness sprung from a nature that was as generous as it was simple. She knew of my passion for horseflesh. If I had loved peaches, she would have gifted me a fruit tree instead.’

  The Duc’s gaze narrowed. ‘And your skill with this “horseflesh” is becoming widely known. Indeed, your recent performance at the tourney in Arras was – I did hear – spectacular. Your reputation precedes you, Lord de Bellegarde, even to Gisors.’

  ‘You flatter me, your Grace, but the true skill lies in the hours dedicated to training.’

  Jean de Berri’s lips curved. ‘Perhaps you should devote some of that training to your wife’s cats, monsieur,’ he drawled, ‘or maybe your wife, since I gather you were unaware of their inclusion into your entourage.’

  Splashes of red flamed Gillet’s cheeks. He tilted his head and accepted the denigration. ‘I humbly beg your Grace’s pardon. We have not long been married, and I fear Cécile misunderstood my instructions.’

  ‘Do not be too hard on your new bride, Lord de Bellegarde,’ said Blanche. ‘A young wife has much to learn in her first year of wedlock. Nothing can prepare her for the demands of a new husband and child. I know. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see to Jeanne,’ she said, rising, ‘but once you have settled your business here, come visit with me, Gillet.’ She smiled gently. ‘I have yet to hear your apology.’

  Duc Jean de Berri bid the Vicomtesse a goodnight, and dismissing the servants, firmly closed the door upon their retreating figures. He refilled the goblets and, swirling his with the air of the noblesse, he began. ‘I will come to the point, Lord de Bellegarde. I am aware of Ghillebert d’Albret’s claim that he has been falsely accused of treason but, if he is willing to assist the Crown, I will offer to champion his cause and approach the Dauphin.’

  ‘And this assistance?’ asked Gillet, his attention riveted.

  ‘It’s quite simple. I wish for him to deliver a message. We have become aware that one of the Gascon lords, a Guitard d’Albret, the Vicomte de Tartas, has died.’

  This unfortunate piece of news caught Gillet mid-swallow and he spluttered into his cup.

  The Duc waited politely as his guest attended to a sudden coughing attack, unaware he had just named Gillet’s cousin, Armand’s eldest brother.

  ‘Your pardon, your Grace,’ choked Gillet, wiping his mouth. ‘The wine caught in my throat and burned. By what means did the Vicomte die?’

  ‘The worst of all maladies,’ said Jean de Berri, his scrutiny flicking between Gillet and Cécile, who had turned a sickly pale. ‘The plague has once more raised its ugly head. The cases are isolated, scattered south from Landes but spreading north as far as Crécy. So far the towns have been contained, and dispatches are sent discreetly to the Crown. The last roll listed Guitard d’Albret, the Vicomte de Tartas. The next in line to inherit the title is Arnaud-Amanieu d’Albret, and he will be required to renew his fealty to the Prince of Wales. It is our desire to intercept Albret before he pledges, and send word, inviting the Gascons back to the French Court.’

  Gillet sat pensively for a moment, nodding. ‘Why use Ghillebert d’Albret for this task? You already have the two younger brothers in your forces?’

  ‘I assume you refer to Armand-Amanieu and young Guiraud d’Albret?’ Jean de Berri sipped his wine. ‘Quid pro quo, Lord de Bellegarde. I can help this Ghillebert with what he wants – a royal pardon. Were I to send the two younger Albret brothers into the Prince of Wale’s court and the communiqué was discovered, it could go badly for them, and hence for us.’

  ‘They would face a noose,’ agreed Gillet.

  ‘Precisely. Whereas this accused cousin already faces one. He has nothing to lose.’

  ‘He’s expendable, you mean,’ clarified Gillet.

  The Duc bowed his head. ‘As are we all, for our King,’ he retorted. ‘I do not see that your friend has much choice. You see, Monsieur de Bellegarde, by your admission to knowledge of his whereabouts, you have implicated yourself. Were Ghillebert d’Albret to refuse this mission, I could have Gillet de Bellegarde arrested in his stead. Withholding information from the Crown on a known criminal is a serious offense.’

  Cécile’s gasp did not soften the Duc’s face.

  ‘I doubt such action will be necessary,’ offered Gillet. ‘I know he will accept this mission.’

  ‘Excellent! I am pleased to hear you speak with such confidence, but your own assignment will not end merely with delivering our offer, Lord de Bellegarde,’ said Jean. ‘We would have you accompany Monsieur d’Albret, as our agent. You shall travel to an area outside Bordeaux, where a court is currently preparing for the Prince on his father’s estate.’ The Duc tipped his head. ‘And, as a show of good faith, we invite your wife to remain here and take up duty as a lady-in-waiting to the Vicomtesse in your absence. I am sure you understand the great honour placed upon such an appointment. Might I suggest tomorrow would not be too soon for your departure? Our matter needs immediate attention. And as you shall be requiring your own men, we shall send an armed escort to collect your son so that he may join your wife here.’

  Gillet outwardly remained passive. He nodded compliance but, Cécile saw her husband’s grasp tighten upon his goblet until his knuckles were white and the vessel itself was in danger of being snapped in two.

  Cécile glanced at the large canopied bed in her chamber, all the while listening to the sounds coming from the connecting room. The clinking of metal attested to wine being poured and she heard Gillet expel a heavy sigh. It was time to find out just how angry he was with her. She tiptoed to the arched portal and peeped in.

  He was stretched out on the bed, still fully dressed, one hand balancing a goblet on his chest, his other forearm flung over his face. His warrior training must have sensed her presence and he groaned.

  ‘I cannot believe I swore in front of the Vicomtesse.’ He rolled onto his side, his arm providing a column for his head. ‘And I do not remember inviting your cats to come with us.’

  ‘Are you so very angry at me?’ asked Cécile, gliding across the Persian rugs to sit beside him. ‘Trefor was supposed to keep the cats at the inn. I suppose he forgot to unload them from the cart.’

  ‘Turn around,’ ordered Gillet, letting his empty goblet tumble to the mattress. His nimble fingers unlaced Cécile’s gown with lightning speed. He moved her hair aside and kissed her neck. ‘If we hoped to make an impression this evening, then rest assured, Milady, we did. I was angry at the time but not now.’

  Cécile closed her eyes and leaned back against her husband, moaning as he peeled the gown from one shoulder. Oh so softly his lips touched her skin. Then she remembered. She turned to face
him, her heart heavy. ‘I’m so sorry about your cousin, Gillet. I hardly knew Guitard d’Albret. Oh! Armand!’ She grasped her husband’s hand. ‘You have to tell him of his brother’s death. It would be better coming from someone he knew.’

  Sadness smoothed Gillet’s expression. He nodded and kissed her fingers. ‘Guitard was a good man. I will tell Armand on the morrow. I shall call at the inn before I leave for Bordeaux.’

  At the reminder of his departure, Cécile sighed. ‘Must you go so soon?’

  A spark ignited in Gillet’s eyes. ‘Apparently.’ He pulled away and, retrieving his goblet, refilled it from the jug on the chest, offering one to Cécile. She refused.

  ‘It could not have come at a worse time. Armand and Gabriel must go to Beauvais.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, dear wife,’ he said, returning to her side. ‘For all the men I unhorsed at the tourney, I was eligible to take their horses and armour. I declined. To rob a man of his warhorse is akin to stripping him of his manhood, and that was not my intention on the day. Instead I requested well-bred foals or, if they had no stock on the ground, a promissory note for this season’s breeding with a twelvemonth term for fulfilment.’ His brow arched. ‘Since I did not know where I would be in a year’s time, I arranged for the stock to be delivered to Beauvais, whereupon Armand and Gabriel will take them to Bellegarde. The Comte de Flandre was so agreeable to my offer he is providing at least a dozen young fillies of exemplary bloodline. In fact, I am assured of prime stock throughout for most knights would rather lose a wife than their warhorse.’ He grinned at her arched brow. ‘I said most.’

  ‘But who will travel with you? Mouse is returning home for a few weeks.’

  ‘I’ll take Griffith.’ Gillet’s gaze locked with Cécile’s. ‘You do understand they are keeping you and our son hostage until I return.’

  Cécile nodded. ‘Yes, I grasped that.’

  Gillet put down his wine and tilted her chin upwards. ‘I did not care for the way the Duc looked at you tonight.’