The Order of the Lily (12 page)

‘Agreed. Assist Lady Holland to her mount. I will join you as planned,' Simon instructed.

The huge man lifted her effortlessly atop a mare and was soon beside her on his own horse. Guiraud and Gabriel mounted up, neither man looking in her direction. Instead, they watched the crowd.

Simon removed Salisbury's saddle bags and handed them to Gabriel. He untied the stallion and slapped it on the rump. It bolted into the crowd as Simon melted into the shadows.

Catherine peered around her, hoping to find the dark-skinned face of Tariq, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Gillet's comrades drew her mount closer to the drawbridge, yet hung back beside a water trough, watching and waiting. A sudden eruption of noise and flame engulfed the centre of the mêlée as a cart exploded. Panic quickly spread through the entertainers, scattering men and women in all directions. Smoke filled the bailey. Catherine's horse reared, almost dislodging her, as small, fiery particles rained down, smouldering holes in her cloak. Mouse pulled at the mare's reins and they all sped through the archway, blatantly disregarding the commands shouted at them to halt.

Simon appeared on the other side of the sluice, his face and hands blackened and his doublet smoking. The party slowed to allow Simon to mount his stallion then they headed towards the city gates and into the open countryside.

They did not draw rein until they reached the outskirts of Leubringhen. The sun was setting and a light rain began to fall. Simon cast his eyes over the men but his gaze settled on Catherine. She had not complained, even though she was not comfortable on a horse. Her hair hung limp around her face and she attempted to smile at him with bluish lips.

‘We can rest soon. I promise,' he offered and she nodded as though having heard, yet he was unsure whether she was really listening to him.

‘May I beg a moment of privacy, amongst those trees?' She blushed.

‘Can you not wait?'

She shook her head.

Simon assisted her to the ground and watched as she rushed towards the cover of the bushes. Catherine attended to her ablutions, then hurried back to the men who were gathered around her mare. The largest of the three inhaled sharply, his eyes scrutinising her face.

‘I cannot believe that you are not Mademoiselle Cécile.'

‘Yes, you are most alike,' added Guiraud.

‘I believe identical, oui?' added the blonde of the trio. Catherine was mesmerised by his features, so fair of face was he. ‘I hope that we may have the opportunity to know each other better, perhaps.' He took her fingers into his and drew them to his lips.

Though her instinct was to pull away, she found herself charmed beyond reason.

‘May I introduce my friends? This great oaf is Martin de Brie, but you might know him as Mouse.'

Catherine nodded, recalling her sister's merry description of the gentle giant.

‘Guiraud d'Albret.' The serious young soldier bowed formally.

‘And I am Gabriel de Beaumont de l'Oise, at your service, beautiful lady.'

Two hands circled her waist without warning as Simon lifted her onto his own stallion.

‘We had best keep moving before you are either drowned in shallow compliments or this God awful rain,' he barked.

‘But my mare?'

‘Has pulled up short and needs to be rested. You will have to ride with me.'

Catherine clung to the pommel as Simon drew himself up and wrapped his arm around her waist in one movement.

Though she could not see his face, she was sure he was smirking, which he was apt to do when he thought he had the upper hand. Catherine took a deep breath, willing herself to stay calm. But she could not control the erratic beat of her heart.

‘You are trembling?'

‘I am cold,' Catherine replied through chattering teeth.

He pulled back on the reins and allowed their companions to ride a short distance ahead. ‘You favour your left arm.'

‘I was injured in a fall. Tariq stitched my shoulder,' she replied, aware that he had tensed.

‘But you told me that you were unhurt!'

‘I thought you meant … I mean … I thought,' she stuttered, unwilling to address the subject directly.

‘You thought I was inquiring after your maidenhood?'

His lack of subtleness rendered her silent. A rush of heat scalded her cheeks.

‘Then he did not … you are …'

Catherine was unable to reply, mortified by the subject matter and she felt her face burn even more.

‘I see,' he replied.

Desperate to change the conversation, Catherine steered it to safer ground. ‘Where are Roderick and Anaïs?' she croaked.

‘I instructed my brother to assist Gillet to Dover. He will rejoin us shortly. As for Anaïs …' Simon hesitated. ‘The Prince placed her in a hospice.'

‘Dear Lord!'

‘It is far better than she deserved.'

‘She is deeply troubled, Simon. We must treat her with compassion.'

Simon huffed and urged their mount forward. ‘We have a long ride, Lady Holland. Perhaps you should withhold some of that pity for yourself.'

Catherine closed her eyes and tried to block the image of Simon's angry face. In his current mood the journey would indeed be most uncomfortable.

Catherine shifted in the saddle and felt her guardian stiffen his back. The lightest brush against his skin sent her soaring skyward. Every new emotion, though, was tinged with fear and at some point she knew she would have to decide whether playing with fire was worth the pain of the ensuing burn. She slipped her hand within her gown and sought the reassurance of her rosary. The feel of it offered more security than anything else in her life. Perhaps it had been wrong to disregard the church so rapidly?

‘Where are we going?' she asked, hoping to break the silence that descended between them.

‘The Church of Saint Martin. I know the priest there.'

‘Sanctuary?'

‘Of a sort,' he retorted.

Catherine pondered his odd answer, unable to fathom why he would offer such a cryptic reply.

By the time they reached the small church Catherine was wet through. The icy fingers of autumn rain had worked their way into each layer of clothing and the hem of her cloak was weighted heavily with mud. The once beautiful gown was ruined beyond repair. Several seams in the sleeves had ripped and the outer material was dotted with singe marks. Her hair, so neatly curled and pinned by the castle maids, had worked loose and now trailed haphazardly down her back.

Simon dismounted and spoke to their three companions, each of them disappearing to complete their allotted task. He then assisted her from the saddle and they entered the building by the vestry door, the interior illuminated as though they were expected.

‘Lord Simon. I am most pleased to see you.'

The parish priest was a small man, with protruding eyes. He embraced Simon with familiarity, smiling with delight at their arrival.

‘Thank you for waiting upon us, Father Pierre.'

‘It is a pleasure, my son. Come, come, I have prepared a repast for you.'

The vestry led into a kitchen, the fire within heating the cold air and bathing the room in soft light. The table at the centre was covered with several dishes and a large jug of ale. Invited to sit, Catherine bowed her head and waited for the completion of the thanksgiving prayer before breaking a hunk from a freshly baked loaf. Mouse, Guiraud and Gabriel joined them and, though weary, Catherine smiled several times at the playful banter between Gillet's comrades as they feasted on the tasty offerings.

Catherine finished her third goblet, then leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. The brew had not only warmed the very centre of her being, it had also increased her sense of fatigue.

‘Come, child, take my pallet near the fire.' Father Pierre was at her elbow and, with gentle encouragement, settled her in his sleeping place, though she had wanted to protest.

About to succumb to slumber, she heard her name whispered. Her last thought before she fell into sleep was of the man who had spoken, her guardian, who seemed to be making definitive plans for her future.

When Gillet de Bellegarde discovered the estate's rolls, tally-sticks and registers were sadly neglected, he set about putting them into order. Towards the end of the month he rode out daily to oversee the collection of rents, and Cécile, feeling the burden of her condition and tiring more easily now, refused his invitation to accompany him. Gillet returned in the evenings but when he found her fast asleep, he was loath to disturb her. For this reason, he took up quarters in the chamber across the hall. His time sharing of her bed would end soon enough anyway. Cécile was therefore delighted when, at the end of the week, he put aside his manorial duties and surprised her with a visit into the village for the sole purpose of indulging her. She had missed his attention.

‘It is too risky to send for your gowns,' he explained, ‘and we could both use some new boots. I can't have my official mistress looking like a homeless waif, can I?'

The first call was to the dressmaker, a neat and tidy establishment occupying two floors and, whilst Cécile was taken upstairs to be measured, Gillet waited below. She returned shortly thereafter and found him bent over the counter, lan-guidly enjoying a tankard of ale with Monsieur Denis, the tailor. Beneath their hands lay many strips of coloured cloth.

Gillet looked up with a warm smile. ‘Sweetheart, I want you to choose some material for a special gown. The Feast of Michaelmas is only four weeks away.' With a knowing grin he exchanged glances with the tailor as he informed her that the manor would host the annual banquet in the village green. ‘Take your time and choose carefully. This will be a gown for the most special of occasions.' Gillet and Denis returned to discussing topics closer to their own taste as Cécile browsed the plentifully stocked shelves.

Bolts of damask, patterned in rich, deep colours, lay beneath finer linens and silks, shaming the worsted twills and humble homespun at their side. Another chest boasted a wide array of peltries, red squirrel, cony, polecat, fox, Irish hare, beaver, otter and even very expensive ermine. Leathers of fine kid, calf and ox were sprawled over a table, while the baskets below it spilled over with glistening braids. With a gasp of delight Cécile spied a bolt of rose-burgundy velvet.

‘That is a perfect choice,' said Gillet as the tailor removed it from the shelf.

‘It is exquisite!' exclaimed Cécile.

Monsieur Denis held out a length and waves of colour shimmered with the movement, a rich, deep rose darkening to black in the shadowy folds. Then he noticed the blue wool tied to one corner.

‘I am sorry to disappoint the young lass, Lord d'Albret,' said the tailor, shaking his head, ‘but I do believe this one has been purchased already. My assistant has marked it but he should have withdrawn it from sight.' He watched the disappointment crumple Cécile's smile and added, ‘At least let me check.' But on consulting his ledger, he corroborated his suspicion. ‘I am so sorry.'