The Lily and the Lion (11 page)

‘It might be.'

‘And who has put such a ridiculous notion into your head?'

‘Is it really so silly, Armand? Most families give a son or daughter to the church.'

‘And the first time you trip on an uneven flagstone walking down the nave you will be given a month's penance.'

‘Maybe, but at least it if I enter a convent it will redeem the shame I have placed on my papa.'

‘Are you serious? The idea is appalling! Look, Gillet and I have not sat here in torment for the last weeks only to see you throw yourself into a nunnery. I know what you have endured and more importantly
I know you
.' He picked up my hand, his finger idly drawing circles around my knuckles. ‘You love life too much to trade it for eternal worshipping. Trust me, you would be unhappy in a convent within a month, penance or no penance!'

I sighed remorsefully. ‘I am no longer a maiden, nor am I any man's wife. The church may be my only option.'

‘What, as opposed to living? Is that what you really want?' He lifted my chin but I remained stubbornly silent. ‘Very well, you press my cause. If you think yourself ruined beyond earthly redemption then I shall resolve that here and now.'

To my horror he kneeled in the dust. ‘Lady d'Armagnac, will you consent to become my wife?'

My answer was to inelegantly clout his shoulder. ‘Get up, you ass, before someone sees you!'

‘Not until you yoke me to your cart.'

‘A cart of shame! No! Besides, you and I in marriage would be a disaster.'

My cousin sat back on the seat, his face sombre. ‘Had you agreed, I would have called for a priest and spoken my vows without hesitation.' His feigned look of indignation was pitiful and I burst out laughing. Gratified, Armand exclaimed loudly. ‘Now that's the sound I wanted to hear.'

I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘You are without doubt the sweetest man I know but somewhere out there is a very lucky maiden for whom your heart will ache. Do not ask me to deprive you.'

‘Then promise me something instead.'

In all our childhood together there had been very little Armand had refused me. How could I not grant him this one tiny boon? ‘Name it.'

‘Promise me that you will not make up your mind about the convent. Not just yet.' He kissed my fingers and winked at the horrified cleric passing by. ‘Cécile d'Armagnac, a nun,' he chortled. ‘If God wanted fish to live on land he would have blessed them with feet!'

In my chamber later that evening Armand told me my father had returned to Larressingle. His eyes filled with a sadness that he did not often display. ‘He must attend to his defences. Comte de Foix cannot be the peaceful neighbour and has once more set about attacking Uncle Jean's lands.'

‘Papa has gone home without me?' My lungs capsized beneath a sudden pressure and there was sharp pain, as though a stone block had just landed upon my chest.

My cousin perched beside me on the bed. ‘He had no choice, sweetheart. So while the English lions are distracted in the south, we have orders to head north.'

‘North?'

‘Oui. To Artois. The fief is held under the protection of Duc Philippe de Rouvre of Bourgogne.' ‘How do you know this?'

‘Don't scowl, you'll go squiggly-eyed. As to how I know,' he withdrew a parchment from his doublet, ‘I have received word from your papa. Here, the last paragraph is for you. Gillet de Bellegarde just delivered it.'

‘Bellegarde is here?' I exclaimed, taking the letter. There was no hiding or, indeed, explaining my sudden delight.

Armand's eyes lit with interest. ‘I see that news pleases. And here I was thinking myself tall enough. You were right to refuse me this afternoon.'

‘What utter nonsense,' I blustered. ‘That man and I are the epitome of the lands we serve, constantly at war. And I was a child, Armand-Amanieu d'Albret, when I told you I wished for height in a man.' Pinching his arm ruthlessly, I received a laughing yowl for my trouble. ‘Besides, would you care to explain why
he
is involved in my escape? He does work for the Black Prince after all.'

Armand's features rearranged themselves uncomfortably. ‘Ah oui, well, it is complicated, chérie, but suffice to say that when your father sent me to Paris it was to meet with Gillet and arrange your deliverance. I told you to stop scowling! Look, Gillet may work for Edward but it was your father who placed him in Denny Abbey two years ago.' His finger eased my bottom jaw closed. ‘Oh, fly-catching now, are you?'

I slapped away his hand impatiently. ‘Stop it! Are you saying Bellegarde is really a French agent?'

He winked. ‘And extremely well placed, would you not say? Catching flies again? I think that dip in the Seine has turned you into a toad.'

When Armand retired I was listless, fascinated by the revelation that Bellegarde supplied information to French sources. I stared at my vaulted ceiling, my thoughts running amok. Though I had spent nights in Edward's arms, it was the courier's one burning kiss that was branded into my memory. Imagining those large hands wandering freely had left me with an inexplicable yearning. For the first time, I puzzled why a man's fingers or lips should not be allowed further than a waistline. It seemed feasible that the church would not sanction it. I had sat through enough sermons to know all about the evils of lust. I mean, hands, yes, but lips? All that lips could do was kiss.
Sacré bleu
! Surely not! Turning the hue of a boiled crustacean, I buried my face into the meagre padding that passed for a monk's cushion and blurted three Hail Marys in quick succession.

By nones the following day, not having sighted my cousin or the courier, I went for a stroll in the garden. I hoped the exercise would dampen my restless spirit and cool the heat in me. Seating myself on a bench, gripping the book of hours conveniently left in my cell, I settled my ample disguise into tidy folds and opened the clasp on the embossed cover. But I was interrupted by the intensifying sound of muffled voices and, exploring further, discovered that the casement of Armand's room opened onto the garden. The messenger was within.

‘You have no right to suggest such a thing, Armand!' I heard the sound of a whack, resembling a heavy book hitting a hard surface.

My cousin, by comparison, seemed much more in control, though anger rippled at the edge of his voice. ‘That is where you are wrong, Gillet.'

‘So what would you have me do? Woo her?
Merde
! You ask too much.' I threw myself back against the wall lest they had heard the crunch of stones beneath my feet. They were too involved.

‘What would you have then? Do you really want her to flee into a vestry like a frightened virgin?'

‘Hardly a fitting description.'

‘Then what? I have known her for as long as I can remember and I tell you now, she would be miserable in a convent.'

The courier's voice matched Armand's in petulance. ‘You know how things stand. A cat wearing gloves cannot catch mice. What you are asking is impossible. Besides, the Lady d'Armagnac finds my station far beneath her. I'd stand more chance of fishing for trout with needle and thread.'

I was suddenly ashamed. According to Armand, I should have been lighting candles to Bellegarde, for he had battled hard to save me from the Seine. Was I really so conceited?

‘So you would rather she bury herself forever in a religious house, believing she has irreparably disgraced her family?'

There was an irritated sigh. ‘No.' A few retreating steps sounded and I peeked around the rugged stonework. The courier had slumped onto the cot, cradling his head.

Armand sank onto a nearby stool, a letter in his possession. ‘She never wrote how it was that she came to be placed at that inn. It was you, wasn't it?'

A hiss vibrated on the prickling tension. ‘God's sake, Armand! The Prince was supposed to stay in Chartres for the negotiations. I could not have foreseen King Edward sending him to the Dauphin. And of all the inns how, in God's name, was I to know he would choose that one? I was simply awaiting my instructions from the Comte.' He sighed again. ‘And here I was thinking I had repaid my debt to him. Artois!
Christ
. Are you sure that is what he writes?' He grabbed the parchment from my cousin and examined it. ‘Find suitable lodgings far from harm. Pfft! Does such a place even exist?'

My cousin clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I can think of worse tasks than escorting a beautiful lady to safety. You should be thankful my uncle trusts you. Besides, I will be joining you for as long as I can.'

The dark head lifted. ‘Have you told her yet?'

Armand laughed. ‘Oh, no. That pleasure is all yours.'

The courier swiped his knuckles across his mouth with distaste. ‘I have one more royal duty to fulfil. I'll be gone three weeks at least. Meanwhile, I shall try to send Edward's soldiers on a false trail.'

‘And you will think upon my words?'

Bellegarde stood, his answer delivered with such vehemence that my blood froze. ‘No. I do not take the Prince's leavings.'

‘
You
left her unprotected at the
Thorn and Thistle
!' shouted Armand, his anger quick to resurface. ‘This is entirely your fault.
That
is the burr in your blanket!'

‘Yes! It is.
But I did not figure on her staining the blanket
with Edward.
' A resounding whack came from the room as Armand struck the courier to the ground. My cousin stomped to the door and wrenched it open, his face livid.

‘If I am recalled to service it will be on your head to see her to safety. I would not fail Armagnac a second time if I were you!'

Seeking solace in the herb patch on the far side of the path, I slunk past the butterbur and lovage, snapped a twig of rosemary and wondered what sort of leaves hemlock sprouted. So the St Pol steward thought me worthy of an alms bowl, did he? I sank miserably onto a moss-covered log. A small wren warbled in the branches above and an answering call came from nearby. With a tiny flutter of wings, it flew to its mate. Melancholy turned into wretchedness. Bitter tears stung my eyes and I slid my huge monk's sandals along the dirt, wriggling my toes as though some unseen tide splashed at them. The mud would stick. The messenger had delivered an uncomfortable truth, served on a platter of blatancy. I squirmed uneasily. If a mere courier could turn up his nose, what hope did my father have to make an acceptable match? A bead of perspiration trickled down my breasts. Monks robes were damnably coarse and hot but would those of a nun be any better? I knew the answer in my heart. I loved the colour of life too much to swap courtly garments for vestments. Armand was right. I wanted to live, to enjoy, and most of all I wanted love. As he jousted over the right to champion my cause to keep me from the cloister, I realised that I had run the list myself. And if the courier had a scab of guilt for my predicament, why should I not occasionally pick at it? It would be a small compensation. Angrily I dashed at the welling tears.

‘If the illuminators of this monastery were to see their hard labours cracking under a harsh sun they would weep into their habits.' My abandoned prayer book appeared at chin height and I found myself under examination beneath a haughtily lifted brow. Bellegarde's raven hair swept his shoulder as he looked to the casement across the path. ‘How much did you hear?'

Sniffing, I stood and relieved him of the leather-bound book. ‘Enough to know that you and I are not quit of each other just yet. Run into a wall, did you?' The bruise on his jaw was already turning purple.

‘Cécile …'

‘I will see it returned.' I held up the hourly prayers. ‘Nice to see you have someone's best interest at heart.'

‘Cécile, what you just heard …'

‘Tell my cousin that he need not worry. I, too, have my pride. I will give him my sister's letter tonight. I would not want to delay your departure. Good day to you, Sir.'

I hope you will understand my decision not to enter the church, Catherine. I know you held some hope but Armand is right. I would not make a very good nun. And though I am loath to say it, Gillet de Bellegarde is right also. I have too much pride in me. One day I might be able to thank him properly for saving my life, but not today.

May God keep you in His good grace.

Written by Cécile d'Armagnac, Abbey of Saint Germain-des-Pres, Paris, 7 June 10 Jean II.

In the dimly lit chapel Gillet de Bellegarde slid back against the pew and stared fixedly at the candle. The prayers refused to come but five years had not diminished the horror. He'd lit it for his cousin, a pimply-faced youth, barely fifteen, whose smile could brighten the gloomiest of winter days. He should never have suffered such a death. Gillet shuddered and wiped his hands over his chausses as though the blood still stained his palms. He'd had the voice of a troubadour, but how long had they let him scream? Gillet fell to his knees and heeled his tired eyes. God knows he'd tried to save him. As soon as he learned of his rebellious cousin's capture he had gone to Edward and begged for a pardon. It had been granted. But the lazy foot-servant had taken a wrong turn down the labyrinth of tunnels and tardy with the reprieve, they arrived too late.