The Order of the Lily (33 page)

Simon coughed a mumbled reply. She could not make out what he said, but Armand openly laughed. ‘Oh, come, old man, you are too serious!'

‘What do you want?' inquired Simon, his exasperation obvious.

‘I have been recalled to duty and must return to Calais. I had thought this might suit your plans, for we could travel together.'

‘Please excuse me,' Catherine said politely. ‘I imagine you have much to discuss.'

Simon bowed his head respectfully as she departed.

She stopped in the hallway and took several deep breaths. Simon had not seemed the least surprised by her revelation that Salisbury knew who she was. Nor was she satisfied by her husband's explanation. But then she had not revealed everything, had she? She had not told Simon that Salisbury had asked about the mysterious Lady of Scotland.

Catherine flattened herself against the wall and sidled back to the open doorway, sure that both men were unaware of her presence. Armand spent several minutes discussing his soldiers before talk turned her way. ‘Have you questioned her?' he asked Simon.

‘I have not, nor do I intend to, not yet anyway.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because I doubt she knows anything,' replied Simon.

‘What about the manuscript? Perhaps if you showed it to her?'

‘No.'

‘Do you think Salisbury will continue his pursuit?'

‘Of that I am sure. Catherine tells me that the bastard called her by name.'

‘Interesting,' replied Armand. ‘I wonder if he has informed his master.'

‘Knowing Salisbury, I doubt it. He views each piece of information as a valuable commodity. The Prince will have to pay highly for that little gem.'

‘So what do we do?'

‘Carry on as planned,' Simon explained. ‘You make your delivery whilst I complete my commission. With any luck we shall depart sooner than originally envisaged.'

‘What do you intend to do about Salisbury?' Armand questioned.

‘Desperate men make mistakes.'

‘And the Prince?

‘Leave Edward to me. We shall beard the lion in his own den.'

Having the opportunity to explore the grounds, Catherine discovered the true heart of France, the garden of the world. The manor had been built close to a lake, its reflection sparkling like a mosaic window in the midday sun. It appeared all the more picturesque by the timber bridge that spanned the centre. Leaning on the handrail, admiring God's work, Catherine was surprised when Armand appeared suddenly.

‘Your presence evokes vivid memories of my childhood and adolescence,' began Armand. ‘But I must remind myself that you are not Cécile and we share little commonality.' His smile was wistful. ‘There are moments when I forget.'

‘You miss her?'

‘Yes, very much.' Armand linked his arm through Catherine's and led her back towards the house. ‘I have never denied my love for Cécile. It is more that I realise how much I took it for granted.'

‘I believe that may be the case for many of us, for such knowledge is often gained in hindsight.'

Armand smiled. ‘I know you have been told just how alike you are. But it is more than just your appearance, your smile. The dimple in your cheek, the way you narrow your eyes when you are angry.'

Catherine scowled playfully, for she was rarely cross.

‘The way you look at me now, I see Cécile and my heart is warmed. You do not often smile,' he said. ‘Are you so very sad?'

‘I am not sad at all.'

‘Really? I just can't imagine that Lord Pompous is much fun!'

‘That is unfair, Armand. Simon is … Simon is …'

‘Is what?'

‘Jovial. At times he is jovial.'

Armand scoffed and then laughed as Catherine pulled a face.

‘You should not tease him so.'

‘Why not? I assure you, he gives as good as he gets.'

‘True,' Catherine giggled, ‘but he does not enjoy it as much as you.'

Captivated by their mirth, neither saw Simon's approach. ‘Where have you been? I have been calling you.'

‘I … I … took a turn of the garden … and I …' Catherine attempted to explain.

‘We were simply enjoying each other's company …'

Simon did not wait for Armand to finish. Instead he curled his fist and knocked him to the ground. ‘Leave her be!'

‘Simon!' shrieked Catherine, appalled by her husband's behaviour.

Armand rose, wiping his mouth. ‘It was nothing, you stupid jackass!'

‘I am much aware of your preferences,' fumed Simon. ‘You forget yourself, Armand d'Albret! Catherine is not available for your dalliance.'

Embarrassed by Simon's outburst, Catherine lifted her skirt and fled, Armand's and her husband's harsh words following her into the orchard.

Simon found her sitting on an upturned bucket, talking to several foraging wood pigeons.

‘May I?' he asked, indicating a nearby straw bale.

She nodded and hastily looked away.

‘I apologise for Armand. I simply misunderstood,' he began, but Catherine continued to stare in the opposite direction.

‘May I ask you something, M'lord?'

‘You may,' he replied, touched by the grief he saw upon her face.

‘Do you think you will ever want me as your wife?'

‘I cannot answer that.'

‘Why?' she replied.

‘Because I fear that I cannot be honest.'

‘I do not understand. Why can you not be honest with me? I do not lie to you,' she declared stubbornly.

Simon cocked one brow, remembering the white lie she had told him in Paris.

‘You are timid and easily distraught,' he began, rising to his feet, ‘and I care sufficiently that I do not wish to cause you pain.'

‘I do not believe you. I think you
do
want me as your true wife but are more fearful of causing pain to yourself than to me!'

‘You speak from inexperience,' he blustered, then marched away.

‘That might be the case, but I know my own heart,' she spoke aloud to his retreating back.

Salisbury stabled his horse and slipped into the building by the rear entrance. He tossed the innkeeper a small bag of coins. His day had not gone as planned. He was tired and hungry and wanted nothing more than a jug of ale and the comfort of his bed.

He was not expecting the visitor who awaited his return. ‘Your Grace.' Salisbury dropped to his knees and studied the soiled boots before him.

‘A mutual friend informs me that you have been attempting to locate a certain missing demoiselle?'

‘Yes, M'lord.'

‘Is the news good?' The edge to Prince Edward's voice was ominous.

Salisbury dared not look up. ‘It is not as we had thought, Sire.' Edward's silence was unnerving and finally Salisbury mumbled, ‘It was Catherine, M'lord, not Cécile.'

‘I have been told as much,' the Prince replied, ‘but I wished to hear it from your lips. How long have you known?'

‘I did not, M'lord, not until I had her within my grasp,' he lied, clenching his fist in mimicry. ‘Then I knew.'

‘How so?'

‘Her companions called her by name.'

‘So, Wexford is a traitor.'

‘Yes, M'lord.'

Edward kicked the table, toppling the jug of ale and scattering the tankards. ‘When did the girls change places?'

‘I do not know.'

‘Then find out!' he bellowed and stormed from the room.

‘Bitch!' spat Salisbury, retrieving the jug and hurling it at the wall. Joan had betrayed him to her lover and God only knew the benefits she was now enjoying. Once again he would be seen as the snivelling second. But that was going to change. Once he had his hands on the Lady of Scotland things would be different. Perhaps Wexford's head on a platter would better his position.

Cécile stretched out before the fire in the solar. Cinnamon sprawled languorously over her lap, her loud purrs echoing sentiment enough for both of them. Gillet sat in the other chair, studiously absorbed in making flights for his arrows. He had a bundle of shafts at his feet and a small wicker basket of assorted feathers on his knee. Perched on the chair arm beside him, Nutmeg saw fit to assist and every now and again a paw intervened, clawing at the wiggling plumes.

A sudden, resounding sneeze from Gillet launched the container on his lap into flight, and the two cats leaped to the floor to chase, catch and promptly munch his precious pinion.

Gillet huffed with annoyance and in a ‘please control your cats' tone he drawled, ‘Sayseeele.'

Cécile chuckled and scooped up Cinnamon, but Nutmeg, with an air of male arrogance and a grey fledge poking from his mouth, swished his tail and returned to his perch. The impudent creature glared at Gillet.

‘Your cats need to learn manners.'

Nutmeg's chest rolled with a feline growl as Gillet tugged the feather from its mouth and threw it into the fire. He kneeled to clean up the mess.

‘I think I am feeding them too much,' replied Cécile, poking Cinnamon. ‘Do you think she is becoming fat?'

Gillet looked up from the floor. ‘Here, let me see.' He flipped her over and in protest Cinnamon sunk her claws into his flesh. ‘Ow! Ungrateful beast! No, sweetheart, you may even be underfeeding her.' He dropped the cat back into Cécile's lap and returned to his seat, under the vicious stare of Nutmeg. Gillet pushed the cat from its roost. ‘I think Cinnamon and Nutmeg have decided to add a spice rack to your pantry.'