The Gilded Crown (57 page)

The gathering of winter stores began and Gillet, Armand, Mouse and Griffith went hunting almost every day in the large expanse of the Loire forest. They returned filthy, spattered with mud and blood, both animal and their own. But more importantly, they came back laughing.

Cécile knew the pain still existed for all of them but to honour their companion's wonderful zest for life, they chose to move on. Gabriel would want that.

The evenings became a time for games and storytelling once more as they gathered around the hearth in the hall. Cécile nursed Jean-Petit and gave him a bone to gnaw; he had six teeth now. Griffith and Minette cuddled by the fire and Odette and Veronique busied themselves stitching baby clothes with pointed looks at Minette. Henri and Trefor sat cross-legged upon the floor and gazed up in open-mouthed awe as the men regaled them with tales of folklore. Armand also told stories of his trip to Scotland and how he met Tiphanie.

To Armand's great relief, Cécile had taken an instant liking to his affianced, and the planning of a spring wedding had given the women new spirit. Secretly Cécile nursed the belief that it was Gabriel's last gift to her. When she offered her conviction to Gillet in bed later that night, his eyebrows raised but he did not dismiss the notion.

‘Well,' he drawled, peeling the chemise from Cécile's shoulder and kissing the soft skin, ‘what were the odds on Armand returning betrothed? Lift up your arms.' She obeyed and he pulled the garment over her head. ‘I guess it depends upon when he made the decision to marry.' Gillet pressed his lips to her neck and nipped at her pulse. He kissed a trail down to her breasts – his domain again now that Jean Petit was fully weaned.

‘Hmmm.' Cécile arched in pleasure. Any thoughts of her new cousin or weddings flew from her mind as Gillet's hand slid between her thighs. There was no more talking, only the crackle of the fire and the moans of lovers.

When, sometime later, they fell back among the pillows, sated, Cécile traced tiny patterns on Gillet's chest and asked. ‘What now?'

‘What, woman? You want more already?' Gillet tugged her hair. It hung in ringlets around her neck, almost reaching her shoulders.

Cécile giggled. ‘No. I mean what now for us, here in Bellegarde?'

‘We live our lives,' stated Gillet matter-of-factly.

‘But what about the Dauphin? When he receives that scroll, won't he call you forth to withdraw the charges against you?'

‘I do not think that will happen anytime soon.' He looked at his wife. ‘Trust me. I had a decision to make and I made the right one.' He stretched out his limbs like a great lion taking pause, and then clasping his fingers under his head, stared at the ceiling. ‘I can only pray that damning evidence made its way into the right hands.'

September, 1361

Edinburgh, Scotland

Simon waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkened interior, then made his way along the nave towards the large stained glass window. He was expecting the church to be empty given the lateness of the hour, so was surprised to find several nuns worshipping in the transept. Selecting a pew midway between the back and side entrances, Simon knelt and bowed his head. He could feel the scroll beneath his doublet, the broken wax seal catching on his shirt.

Catherine had settled well back at Cambridge Castle and he had begun to believe that she would recover from the grief that had all but consumed her. He lowered his face as the sisters filed past him, their habits stirring a fond memory. A vision of his wife, dressed in a brown surcoat lifted his heavy mood. How she had changed in such a short period of time!

‘The Church of Saint Giles? An odd place to suggest for our meeting.' Robert Stewart leaned against the pew. ‘I would have much preferred the tavern.'

‘Saint Giles invokes good tidings for me,' replied Simon.

‘Care to share?' Robert folded his arms and waited.

‘A friend once gifted a medal of Saint Gilles to the woman of his heart. In return, he wears a medal of the saint bearing her name.'

‘And he gained her respect?'

‘He won her love and they married.'

Robert gazed up at the arched beams. ‘Touching story. Are you telling me you now feel the need for protection from a saint?' He looked at Simon. ‘I heard of your loss and I am sorry. How is your wife?'

‘Recovering, but it has not been an easy time. The imminent birth of our second child has brought her renewed purpose.'

‘You have my sympathy, Wexford.' Robert grasped Simon's shoulder. ‘I, too, know what it is to lose a babe.'

‘I will pass your well wishes to Lady Wexford,' Simon offered, unable to determine if Robert's sentiment was genuine.

‘Your message said you had something for me.'

‘I do.' Simon's hand hovered over his doublet. ‘And this fulfils our arrangement?'

‘I will decide that once I have seen it.' Robert grinned

Simon removed the parchment and passed it to Robert. The heir to the Scottish throne unfolded the document and examined it under the dim light cast by the candle on the altar. His smile grew wide as his eyes skimmed over the agreement.

‘I believe this more than adequately meets my expectations, Wexford.'

‘Then we are finished here?'

‘Aye, we are,' Robert agreed. He held the document up to the candle and examined the contents once more before placing the corner into the flame.

Simon watched, mesmerised, as King Edward's insignia erupted, the Thistle of Scotland following closely behind. ‘You know it was obtained at great sacrifice by some.'

‘Tell them they have the gratitude of the nation. Scotland will remain ruled by a Scottish monarch.' Robert held onto the scroll for as long as possible, only dropping the sheet when it was fully alight. Large pieces of blackened parchment floated like feathers to the flagstone floor where they settled at the base of the alabaster statue of Saint Giles. ‘It is done.'

Simon nodded and without a backwards glance, marched from the church.

Edward of Woodstock dismissed his servant and closed the heavy oak doors to his chamber. He poured himself a large goblet of Bordeaux and gazed dispassionately into the murrey depths. Was it irony that the name of his favourite wine was also to be the place of his new court, his paradise,
his world to rule?
His lips pulled into a thin line. His domain would be missing something he had long coveted. And now all hope was gone.

He'd just come from an interview with Humphrey de Bohan. The snake had enjoyed two months of court dalliance before requesting his audience. And Edward was sure he'd seen Salisbury hanging off de Bohun's elbow.

The Prince had kept his face void of all emotion during the interview, and now, in the privacy of his own chamber, he permitted himself an expression of contemptuous disgust. His thoughts passed over de Bohan and clutched at the heart of the matter. He took a large swig of the wine.

The one woman who heated his blood, made his senses sing, who could have become his queen and at whose feet he would have kneeled prostrate, had married Gillet de Bellegarde. In the eyes of God, they were man and wife and there was nothing,
nothing
, he, Edward of Woodstock, son of King Edward III, Prince of Wales, could do.

The Prince's nostrils flared. With a mighty roar, he swept his arm over the top of his writing bureau. Wine, ink, pots, quills, parchments and coins plummeted to the costly Persian rug. Did she think she could pluck him from her life so easily? She was the daughter of one of his vassals! He frowned darkly. But Armagnac had yet to come to heel and Edward needed some connection, some bond or tie
now
. He could not just let Cécile d'Armagnac slip through his fingers again.

Exhausted, Edward sank onto the stool at his dishevelled bureau and stared at the row of books protruding from the upper narrow shelf – old volumes, poetry collections and lessons from his schooling. His fingers alighted upon a gilt-crusted cover and he extracted it. It was a missal from his studies in the days he had shared his tutors with the other children fostered at Woodstock – a time long before Cécile d'Armagnac. He thumbed to the back pages and found an inscription on the yellowing parchment. It was penned in a childish, female hand; a clumsy outline of a heart enclosing two names.

The Prince stroked his bearded chin and inhaled deeply. It was not in him to admit defeat. No, the day would come when Cécile d'Armagnac would kneel to him. And she
would
grace his bed again but in the meantime … he stared at the two names within the drawing – Edward and Joan – and he knew he would align himself in any way possible. Edward of Woodstock snapped shut the book, his fingertips caressing the embossed golden lion.

‘Your France will feel my presence, Gillet de Bellegarde, and by God, truce or no truce, wherever you are, you
will
hear me roar.'

To be continued in

Lions and Lilies – Book Four – ‘Roar of the Lion.'

‘Well, well, well. I must say, I am surprised to see you here, Wexford!'

Simon Marshall clenched his jaw and glared at the Black Prince before replying tartly, ‘Your bride requested our attendance, Sire. I was of the impression that we were not in a position to refuse.'

Space within the great hall at Windsor Palace was at a premium. Anyone of rank or title had arrived at the country estate to attend the royal wedding and were now squeezed cheek-to-jowl as they waited to partake of the gastronomical banquet. The Prince gathered two goblets of wine from a passing steward and handed one to Simon. ‘I have yet to cast my eyes upon Lady Wexford. How fares her health?'

The sea of velvet, silk and fustian momentarily parted, providing Simon a glimpse of Catherine on the far side of the room. She was seated in a high-backed chair by the door. Her thick brocade gown was not conducive to the unseasonably warm October day and heavily pregnant she appeared hot and uncomfortable, fanning her face in an attempt to cool herself. ‘My wife is well.'

‘And she is recovered from the tragic loss of your ward?'

Simon turned his attention back to the Prince. The royal heir's tone inferred he was far more interested in seeking information than conveying any concern for Catherine.

‘You can imagine my surprise,' continued the Prince, ‘when I learned of the mysterious death of my trusted servant, John Moleyns. This, followed by news of a child accepted into your home and treated like a son. But then he, too, perishes in a fiery inferno along with several others as yet, unidentified individuals. And it appears that the events all share something in common.'

‘Really, what would that be?'

‘You were present on each occasion!'

Simon remained tight-lipped. It would do his cause no good to utter a careless comment.

‘Perhaps my inquiry will provide some clarity.'

Simon swirled the ornate drinking vessel before swallowing the remainder of the expensive Gascon red.

Joan, the Fair Maid of Kent, brushed behind the Prince, her fingers trailing across his shoulder. Dressed in a russet, velvet gown, the veil of her headpiece flowed from her shoulders to below her waist; Joan's beauty had not diminished with age. Simon had to admit, even to himself, that the bride looked radiant.