The Order of the Lily (14 page)

Stung by his vehemence, Cécile glimpsed once more over her shoulder. Gwynedd had gone. ‘You said the Welsh are very superstitious. Do they practise charms and incantations?' They had reached the rear door of the manor and Gillet set her down gently.

‘Wiccan? Now you are beginning to sound like the villagers. Llewellyn's daughter disappears into the forest from time to time but she simply collects herbs and berries for healing. This is a small town, Cécile. Do not be lured into the gossips' tales.' He cocked an eyebrow. ‘I could tell you that Llewellyn's oldest son, Griffith, can work magic with horses but that doesn't mean he is a necromancer. Now go, attend this wound and do not forget, I forbid you to enter the stables.'

Cécile limped through the arched portal. She paused to watch Gillet striding back to the horses. She suddenly felt very cold, or was it her imagination? Gillet was planning extensions, work that would require his daily attendance. And she had just learned that Llewellyn's daughter also worked in the stables, a girl definitely besotted. And from where had
she
just been excluded? Was it coincidence, clever manipulation or ancient Welsh sorcery?

Over the next few days, Cécile felt her fear turn to foolishness as Gillet's attentions became fixed upon repairing the estate's mill. He rode out daily, returning late in the evening, content that his efforts would see the huge stone wheel grind flour before winter. The serfs were jubilant.

With Margot still recovering, Cécile was left to her own devices and, exploring the manor, she chanced upon a room hiding a trestle table and old patterns. Though sewing was hardly her forté, the idea of presenting Gillet with a garment made by her own hands filled her with excitement. She could just imagine the expression on his face when she offered it to him, and besides, it would help pass the long, empty hours.

Throwing open the dusty chests, she was amazed to find a rainbow of rich colours hidden beneath the lids – bright leaf-green, deep red and purple damasks, gold brocades, striped and plain lustrous cendal. An array of silks, shot with silver, cream and gold, selections of velvets and wools, but it was a splendid dark blue samite that she hugged to her breast. It would be a perfect matching companion to her new gown. Wondering why Gillet had purchased materials from town when these were under his own roof, she spread out the glorious samite upon the table and began to lay the pattern.

For the next two days, Cécile d'Armagnac was to commit every possible seamstress sin. With the tip of her tongue poking out, she carefully cut around the fabric pattern, only to find she had forgotten to allow for seams. Resolutely pushing her mistake aside, she began again, only to discover some hours later that she had sewn the sleeves in upside down. Laboriously unpicking her stitching and sucking her needle-pricked fingers, she then proceeded to stitch them inside out. By the afternoon of the third day, she completed the garment and laid it reverently on the board, tugging the uneven neckline and crooked hem into place. She stepped back to survey her work. There was no hiding the one sleeve that was a good inch longer than its partner and the lacing holes across the front did not line up. She collapsed onto the stool, eyes welling and her bottom lip trembling. Her expectation of receiving one of Gillet's wondrous smiles as she presented her workmanship had quickly dimmed.

‘You fool, Cécile d'Armagnac. You thought to bask in the glory of your harvest? Well, stupid girl, one cannot reap, if one cannot sew!' She laughed at her own joke, then buried her face into her lap and wept broken-heartedly.

Gillet noticed Cécile's pale and drawn countenance as they broke their fast the following morning. He laid down his knife with a sigh. ‘I have been neglecting you.'

‘I have seen so little of you lately.' Too easily the tears flooded her eyes.

‘Céci.' Ignoring the stray glances from the workers at the other end of the hall, Gillet lifted her onto his lap and brushed the hair from her face. ‘What is it? Are you not well?'

Cécile curled herself into a tiny ball and buried her head into his shoulder. She sniffed back a wave of desolation that was threatening to engulf her. ‘I am at odds. One moment I could sing for joy and the next I feel as though my world is ending. I have barely laid eyes upon you for days, and … and …' The dam broke its banks and she sobbed against his neck. ‘I am getting fat!'

‘Hush, now. You are out of sorts.' He lifted her chin, his thumb lightly stroking her bottom lip. ‘I will make it up to you. I have achieved a measure of success at the mill, so today we shall take some time for ourselves. Yes? Inferno needs exercise so allow me the morning to oversee the men, and meet me outside the stable after noon. Agreed?' He raised her blotched face and she tried to smile.

Towards noon Cécile was impatiently awaiting the arrival of Veronique to help her dress. The girl was tardy and Cécile was irritable. As she left the hall that morning, a comment from one of the workers had caught her ears. Further inquiry had revealed that it had become Gwynedd's habit of late to bake pies and deliver them to the mill. The Welsh witch was being hailed as a saint for her charitable work.

‘About time,' snapped Cécile when Veronique appeared at her door.

‘Your pardon, Mademoiselle,' replied the maid, dipping a curtsey, ‘I was in attendance to the Madame d'Albret.'

Cécile was instantly remorseful. After all, Veronique was Marguerite's maid and had only been assigned temporarily. ‘Perhaps I should consider a girl for my own use. Is there one you would recommend?' Cécile sat on the stool so Veronique could dress her hair.

‘Oui, Mademoiselle. I have always thought Minette was ill-placed in the kitchen. She is diligent and a hard worker but far too dainty to be hauling kettles of boiling water.

‘Minette? Do you mean the girl that helps you fill my bath?'

‘Oui, Mademoiselle. She was brought to the manor two and half years ago after her father, the village blacksmith, was killed.' Veronique paused in her brushing, consumed by reminiscence. ‘He was attacked by three outlaws right in front of the poor child. Her maman,' she crossed herself, ‘God rest her soul, died from the plague some years earlier. Minette was their only issue so she was left to help her father run the smithy. After the forge was sold to pay debts, Lord d'Albret, that is to say Monsieur Ghillebert, brought her to the manor. Had he not, she would have starved on the streets, all alone as she was, poor mite. But I should give you warning, Mademoiselle, she is all but mute.' Veronique raised her eyebrows. ‘Not that she cannot talk, mind you, just that she
will
not, unless absolutely necessary. Ever since she witnessed her father's death, you see. She was held down and forced to watch as the rogues slit the smithy's throat,' she wielded the hairbrush before her, ‘but, as the story goes, not afore they threw him against his own fire, and stuck the bellows …'

Cécile laid her hand on Veronique's swishing arm. ‘You paint a vivid picture, Veronique. Thank you.'

‘Your pardon, Mademoiselle. These men were about to rape the terrified girl, but God is all-seeing, and all-knowing. Lord d'Albret happened to be riding by on that great black beast of his, when it threw a shoe.'

‘Gracious! Do you mean Gillet came upon them raping her?'

Veronique clucked her tongue. ‘He could do nothing for the father, you understand, but he put a swift end to their antics, I can tell you.' Her eyes rolled skywards. ‘His lordship was so enraged he had their carcasses strung up in the square for nigh on a month as a warning to others. Terrified the villagers, it did, and Chilham smelt like a rotting sewer for weeks.'

‘And the girl? Minette?'

‘Brought her here. She is sixteen now and as dainty as a flower, but for over two years we have tried to get more than a peep out of her.' Veronique resumed brushing Cécile's hair. ‘But a kind mistress, like yourself, might have more success, if you were to take her in hand.'

‘Thank you, Veronique. I shall definitely speak with Lord d'Albret.'

With her hair dressed and having donned one of Marguerite's gowns, Cécile made her way to the stable yard, filled with a new purpose. She found Gillet already lunging the great stallion and, smiling, she climbed upon the rail to watch.

Horse and master worked together. Inferno, trotting in a circle, responded to the tugs upon the rope and heeded his master's requests. Sweat shimmered on the beast's jet black coat and his limbs made a whistling sound as he moved through the gaits, from a walk to a trot, to a canter, and returning to a walk at his master's discretion. Gillet's shirt was half undone, his chest glistening, the muscles in his arms strain-ing as he kept his mount under control. The gentle breeze brushed his hair across his beaded brow. Taller than average, and well-proportioned, he exuded strength and masculin-ity. It was no wonder that women lost their hearts so easily, thought Cécile. Just to watch him was a giddying sensation. Cupid had no work here!

Inferno whinnied loudly as Gillet reeled him in, swapping the rope halter for a bridle. The stallion stomped his hoof and arched proudly. Spittle flew from his broad muzzle as he snorted. He was a glamorous beast, with a thick mane and tail and not one fleck of white marring his midnight colouring.

‘What breed is Inferno, Gillet?'

‘A Barb, sweetheart,' he replied, still fiddling with the strap. ‘He comes from Morocco and was a gift to me as a foal. Barbs are known for their strength and endurance over long distances, but they are also are very fast.' He patted the stallion affectionately. ‘He has proven himself well worthy this last year, for my role as a courier was severely tested. No other horse could have withstood such punishment.' Whatever Gillet had been adjusting had fallen into place and he flashed a mischievous grin at Cécile. ‘He is also hot-blooded and has a spirited temper.'

‘Like his master,' she laughed.

Gillet wiped his sleeve across his forehead. ‘Oui, Barbs are known to be very reliable but,' he added, glancing up, ‘
unlike
me, they are not demanding.' Catching his meaning, Cécile blushed at Gillet's rakish grin, and he laughed aloud. ‘Now observe, sweetheart. When a soldier is injured on the field, weighed down by heavy armour, a well-trained horse can mean the difference between life and death.'

Gillet laced up his shirt then fell to the ground in a dramatic display of a man struck down. Rolling in imaginary pain, he whistled to his horse. Inferno trod carefully over to him, his reins dangling. Taking hold of the straps, Gillet tugged sharply, once, then twice more in quick succession. The great stallion bent his forelegs and kneeled. His rump went down so that he was squatting like a camel in the dirt, his legs neatly folded beneath him. Cécile watched, enthralled, as Gillet rolled to the beast and dragged himself on top. Inferno stood, and his master, miraculously healed of injuries, kicked him into a canter. They pulled up in front of Cécile, Gillet pressing his left heel to the stallion's flank and pulling on one rein. He flung out his arm with the charm of a chevalier. His steed struck his front leg forward and touched nuzzle to knee, in what could only be described as a ‘horse bow.'