The Gilded Crown (13 page)

They sat in front of the fire and the one-time Queen, noting Cécile's fascination with the little dogs, asked, ‘do you like animals, Lady de Bellegarde?'

‘Very much so, Madame, but I have never seen the like. Pray tell, what breed are they?' She eagerly held out her hands to receive one of the white creatures with plumed tails.

Blanche d' Évreux's smile demonstrated a gentle nature as she passed one of her pets. ‘They're called Papillon and they are a gift from my step-grandson to keep me company.'

The door squeaked open. ‘Mama?'

Blanche looked up and beckoned in her daughter. ‘Jeanne, come, come child. I hope you do not mind,' she commented to her guests, ‘we are far less formal here than at court.'

The young girl, no more than ten years of age, sidled up to the chair and shyly placed a finger in her mouth. The dusky-rose of her cheeks was far too vivid for the pastiness of her complexion but her large eyes were pretty. She patted the dog resting on her mother's lap. ‘François says it is time to feed the puppies.'

‘Then feed them, we must, dear.' Blanche hugged her daughter, then relinquished the puppy. Two more Papillon danced at the girl's feet.

With a warm smile for the affection she saw displayed, Cécile handed over the fourth dog. Jeanne bobbed a clumsy curtsey, then scuttled from the room, her wispy hair floating across her shoulders and the canines nipping at her hem as they ran beside her.

‘She is lovely,' commented Cécile, disturbed as she heard the girl cough her way down the hall.

‘Jeanne is not always strong.' Blanche sighed sadly. ‘So I keep her close. She is all I have of Philippe, God rest his soul. But there are times when I fear she will see him before me. And then I worry. Philippe never even knew he became a father. How would he recognise her in Heaven?'

‘The angels would know, Madame,' said Gillet, gently, ‘and they would guide her to him.'

‘Thank you, Monsieur. You are very kind. But enough of my ramblings,' she protested, ‘I think we should move into supper. Cécile, do you keep any pets?'

‘Two cats, Madame,' said Cécile as they all rose from the chairs.

‘Safely at home,' added Gillet, holding out his arm to her. He fell into step behind the Dowager Queen, failing to notice the sudden flush to his wife's cheeks as she placed her hand upon his sleeve.

‘I did inform you, Lord de Bellegarde, that my step-grandson will be joining us, yes?' asked Blanche.

‘Yes, Madame, you did.'

‘He wishes to speak with you on a matter most urgent. As you know, your wife's father, Comte d'Armagnac, recently called here on his way to your nuptials. He and I are old friends. The Comte insisted that you, Lord de Bellegarde, could be of enormous assistance in locating a certain gentleman for whom the Duc is searching. Your co-operation in this matter will greatly serve the Crown.'

‘I am yours, Madame, and the Duc's, to command at will,' acknowledged Gillet. ‘Might I inquire as to whom he seeks?'

The Vicomtesse turned to face them. Her answer made Cécile blench. ‘A Lord Ghillebert d'Albret. Comte d'Armagnac intimated the two of you were well known to one another.'

Gillet inclined his head and answered smoothly. ‘Indeed, we are, Madame.'

Seated within the warm, intimate setting of the solar, Cécile forgot her brief panic and relaxed. The servant held out the bowl of scented water so she could dip her fingers, his heel indiscriminately hoofing the puppy gnawing at his ankle. The four little dogs followed him out, yapping excitedly, as maids filled the table with dishes of various vegetables, jugs of gravy and platters of thickly-sliced game. The aroma was delicious and despite earlier misgivings for her appetite, Cécile's stomach growled in anticipation.

Blanche d'Évreux smiled with affection. ‘Ah, here he is.'

Cécile glanced up to see the unmistakable ‘Valois' profile of Jean de Berri stoop to kiss his step-grandmother's cheek, the relationship odd for the fact that their ages differed by only nine summers. They appeared more like brother and matronly sister rather than the two generations which separated their status. Her mind calculating the sums, Cécile decided King Philippe must have been nearly forty years older than his young wife. She recalled it vaguely now. Blanche d'Évreux had been destined for the son, their current reigning monarch, Jean le Bon, but his father-King, having spied her beauty, stole her from him. No doubt the union had set a cat amongst royal pigeons at the time.

The Vicomtesse introduced Gillet to the Duc, and gestured toward Cécile. ‘And of course, you remember Cécile d'Armagnac, now the Lady de Bellegarde.'

Jean de Berri moved with grace as he came to Cécile's side and kissed her hand. ‘What a pleasant surprise,' he murmured. ‘Your illuminating presence at court has been sadly missed.'

‘Your Grace,' replied Cécile demurely, but she caught the dark gleam in Jean's eye.

The conversation rallied well during the meal as the two men verbally jousted on agriculture, crossed swords in politics, clinked cups in music and art, and finally rested in acquisitions, though Cécile could have sworn that throughout the entire intercourse, each man was shrewdly taking the other's measure.

Gillet was enjoying himself but he noted the number of times Jean de Berri's gaze wandered to Cécile and, when the conversation began to heat, the Dowager Queen, perhaps sensitive to the rising tension between the two men, redirected the topic to more general matters. Eventually, talk swayed to the latest palace gossip.

The serving boys entered with a tray of tarts, but when they attempted to clear, Jean de Berri waved them away.

‘Later,' he ordered, disturbed by the interruption. ‘It was never clearly understood, Lady de Bellegarde, exactly what became of you when you disappeared from the palace last year. You were under the protection of my brother, the Dauphin, at the time. Where did you go and in what manner did you arrive? It rankles Charles still that a subject entrusted to him disappeared from under his very nose without a word. He was most distressed.'

‘Your Grace … I …' Cécile was saved having to answer, but what happened next could have been deemed a far worse disaster.

The servants ordered away by the Duc had opened the door to retreat, which allowed four yapping, white flashes to race into the room. They were chasing a bright streak of red and yellow. The barking was a terrible cacophony, an assault upon the ears and the coloured stripe, emitting the most heinous yowls and hissing, leaped upon the table, whereupon the two hues separated.

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.'