The Gilded Crown (51 page)

‘Perhaps you should ask what day it would be,' countered Gillet, moving from his one-cheek perch on the corner of the desk to glance out the window. ‘The hour is past Nones. You have slept through the sun setting and rising past its zenith.'

There was a knock at the door.

Cécile glanced in frustration at her husband, their conversation of earlier, on how and when to escape, interrupted by Odette's wakening. ‘Honestly! My chamber has become busier than a brothel after a tourney! And your squire has yet again sequestered my maid.' Ignoring Gillet's raised brows, she opened her door to find the young chamber-boy of Humphrey de Bohan standing there looking up at her with big, round eyes. His cheeks showed the odd colouring of old bruising and, like Odette, the darker shades of more recent.

‘Ah, yes,' said Gillet, moving to pull the boy inside. ‘I forgot to tell you. You have a new page as well. What is your name, lad?'

The boy's head fell to his chest. He remained silent.

‘Is he mute?' asked Cécile, frowning as she closed the door.

‘No more than the beggar children asking for coin outside cathedrals,' said Gillet. The child's glance flew up and he was rewarded with a wink. Gillet settled him with a goblet of water and a chunk of bread then took Cécile aside to whisper. ‘Lady Katherine asked if we'd take him. I'll explain later. She thinks Humphrey may have damaged the boy and he has taken a bad reaction.'

‘To the bruising?' Cécile looked over Gillet's shoulder to where the lad had curled up into the corner. He had not touched either food or drink.

‘No, to the buggering. I'm sorry, wife,' grimaced Gillet, ‘it would seem you have two birds with broken wings to heal.'

By sunset both Odette and the boy had fallen asleep, the latter much earlier, still huddled up. He had refused to move but had accepted a coverlet and bolster. Cécile heaved a sigh of relief as Gillet sat beside her. He watched her gaze at the boy, her contemplation turning glassy as she lost her present surroundings to stare into a faraway place. Gillet took her hand and pressed it softly to his lips. ‘I know of whom you are thinking and if anyone can save your son, it will be Armand.'

Cécile sighed. ‘I miss him so.'

‘I know.' Gillet rose to pour them refreshment. They had spent the last hour learning of Odette's duplicity and now knew Bonneuil had the scroll. The Madiran wine turned to vinegar in Gillet's mouth as he considered how Bonneuil had played on Odette's misfortune. The whoreson had convinced the girl he really loved her.

‘What now?' asked Cécile, sipping the Gascon brew delicately.

‘We leave as soon as possible,' answered Gillet, tip-toeing over to the corner. He pulled the coverlet over the boy's shoulders and returned to sit at Cécile's feet, leaning against her legs. She combed her fingers through his raven-glossy locks. ‘I was sent here for two reasons and I have failed at both tasks,' he murmured miserably.

‘The first was not yours to fail,' said Cécile. ‘Arn made up his mind before leaving Tartas and the Vicomtesse de Gisors will understand this. She will keep her promise.'

‘And if she does not?'

‘Then I shall convince her.'

Gillet turned to rest his chin on her knee with a smile. ‘And how will you do that, wife? With daggers or swords?'

Images of Duc de Berri standing at the foot of her bed sprung into Cécile's mind. She pushed them aside resolutely, knowing she would exploit the incident to her own ends if necessary. She ran her hand softly down Gillet's cheek. He turned his head to kiss her palm. ‘Neither,' she whispered. ‘I will use a woman's weapon – allurement.'

Bonneuil made his way past the hovels in Blacksmith Lane, the reek of scorched steel and armour grease permeating the air. He trod down the darkened alley and turned into an inner courtyard where a pilfered, broken statue of Saint Martin of Tours cutting his cloak in half leaned against the stone wall at an odd angle. Dark shapes fluttered softly in the night and drifted from sight as the stench of rotted fish and open sewers made him gag. A bundle of rags shifted and Bonneuil drew his blade lightning-fast but the ragged lump grunted and slunk across the cobblestones into the gloom. A shuttered window muted the sounds coming from within the nearby bawdy house and an old, broken pillory stood in the centre of the courtyard, mocking the constabulary.

Bonneuil's courage wavered and he silently cursed Moleyns for his choice of venue. It was past curfew and even the night-watch avoided coming here – Beggars' Corner, home to the city's thieves and vagabonds.

At a shuffling noise, Eustace snapped his head around to find a crook-back boy, his face marred with boils, holding out a grubby hand. His leg was bandaged at the knee, stinking pus oozing over the wrapping.

Bonneuil swiped the boy's arm aside. ‘Get out of my way!' He flashed his dagger and the youth hobbled off, only to stop under the cover of shadows to tighten his bandage, his back as supple as a willow. Eustace bunched his fingers into a fist and marched steadfastly towards the tavern. He sheathed his weapon and pushed open the splintered door.

Inside the low-lit establishment he spoke the password and was given entrance. He paused to let his vision adjust, his nostrils quivering as his stomach honed in on the aroma of roasted meat; in one corner a whole hog hung on a spit over a fire. Through the smoky haze he caught glimpses of the bare-breasted whores, their pale flesh glistening as they draped over the lusting, sweaty men with flushed faces. On a pile of cushions, a lute player strummed drunkenly, his expression one of pleasure as a young woman leaned against him, her hand busy within his braies as she crooned a lullaby.

Bonneuil felt his own loins stirring and shook himself to stay alert. He could not afford to lose his senses in such territory. He'd wind up greeting the dawn on a midden pile, stark naked and as skewered as a Yule-tide boar. He sung out for ale and looking around for his contact, found him patiently waiting at a table in an alcove, sipping on a tankard.
The man must have balls of steel,
thought Eustace as he pulled out a stool and sat down. Either that or he was known here.

‘Moleyns?'

Salisbury nodded. ‘One and the same. Do you have it?'

‘I do.'

‘Show me.'

Bonneuil withdrew the rolled parchment from his tabard, the wax seal broken. He held it out for Salisbury to see. ‘The king's two insignias as requested. Payment.' He wiggled the fingers of his other hand pointedly, impatient to be gone.

Salisbury snatched up the parchment and unrolled it to reveal a badge of three golden lions in one corner and the symbol for Woodstock, a tree stump, eradicated and couped, in the other. He drew in his breath sharply. ‘I asked for the scroll with the insignias of
two
kings. You bring me two insignias from one king and his prince!' He began to read, ‘“Item – one great bed with embroidered fabric, half the threads being in gold and laid with red camaca, there follows cushions, blankets, coverlet, sheets and matching curtains. Item – one bed with embroidered angels, there follows all cushions, blankets, coverlet, sheets and matching curtains. Item – blue garment with the roses of gold and ostrich plumes. Item – two shrines of silver-gilt enamelled in the same way, crosses, chalices, vessels, candelabras, basins, liveries …” You bloody fool!' He shook the parchment and slammed it down. ‘This is the list of royal contents for the prince's boudoir!' His fist hit the table and the candle rocked. ‘The scroll I want has insignias from two,
two
kings,' he hissed, ‘a plaguey Scottish thistle on one side and a sprig of broom on the other! Not this. This …
is useless
.'

Bonneuil felt his shackles rising. ‘Then if that is what you wanted, that is for what you should have asked. You made no mention of a poxy Scottish king! How was I supposed to know?'

Salisbury's eyes bulged. ‘Because the other is of huge importance, not a list of princely conveniences,' he snarled. ‘Why would anyone pay for this?' He flicked the parchment back to Bonneuil in disgust and leaned in, trying to keep his voice low through his anger. ‘The scroll I want is proof that King David of Scotland has signed his throne over to Edward III whereupon said king has, in turn, bequeathed it to his second son, John of Gaunt. Do you understand now, stupid Frenchman? England will sit upon Scotland's throne and the France that you whine you no longer care about will have no ally.
And you confuse that with a bloody list of bed linen!
'

Bonneuil blinked at him, prickling indignantly. He felt a tightening in his gut that usually preceded a rush to the latrine but he steadied himself. ‘I confuse it?' he repeated. ‘Unlike you, Lord Moleyns, I cannot read script. Instead, I steal for great lords who don't like to get their lily-white hands dirty.
You
said it would be the only scroll with two insignias.' He grabbed the parchment and scrunched his fist in Salisbury's face. ‘
Well, this has two poxy insignias. You never said what they were
!'

Bonneuil glanced around to see if their voices had attracted attention but only the bar-keep raised his head. Opposite him, Salisbury poked two fingers into the air and pointed at the sizzling pork. The man nodded in reply and picked up a large carving knife.

‘I suggest we try to keep ourselves inconspicuous,' remarked Salisbury, taking a calming breath. ‘I thought you would read the scroll.'

‘If I could, I would,' retorted Bonneuil, burying his face in his tankard. Both men lapsed into a sulky silence until the slap of a dish upon the table had their tastebuds salivating. Each man picked up a thick, juicy hock.

‘You'll have to go back,' slurped Salisbury after a few minutes. He wiped the grease from his chin.

‘Uh? What?'

‘I need that proof. It is still in the Prince's chamber. You'll have to go back.'

Bonneuil sank his teeth into a thick piece of meat and held up the bristly skin pointedly. ‘Pig's arse, I will.'

‘Then I will not pay you.'

At Bonneuil's sudden move to his sheathed weapon, Salisbury held up the ham-hock like a Viking's club. ‘I would advise against it.' He gesticulated to the far wall where a hairy, behemoth leaned alongside a post, sharpening his cleaver. ‘Unfortunately, we have come under his observation and he looks eager for play.'

Sweat broke out beneath Bonneuil's tabard and he slowly moved his hand back to the table. ‘I'll go back but I want more money,' he growled finally.

The look on Salisbury's face spoke volumes on his regret in mentioning the contents of the letter. He capitulated.

‘Fine. Half as much again.'

Bonneuil had the bastard by the nuts and he was enjoying the sudden surge of power.

‘No. I want double.' The sight of Salisbury's teeth, flecked with pork fat, turned his stomach.

Outside in the coolness of the evening, Bonneuil took a full, deep breath. For a moment he'd been unsure he'd get out alive. He'd rather sup at the entrance to Hell with the Devil than to ever step foot in a den of thieves and cut-throats with that bastard again. As it was, Moleyns had only given him one day to get the scroll. He set off to where his rouncey was hidden and once in the familiarity of his saddle, put his mind and horse to the task afoot. Heading to Blanquefort, his thoughts tumbled over each other and somewhere, in the back of his head, he wondered if that stupid wardrobe-mistress bitch had tricked him on purpose.