The Order of the Lily (19 page)

‘Best wait this out, methinks,' yelled Roderick as a clap of thunder engulfed them.

Catherine dismounted and backed herself up to the trunk of the large oak and dipped her head against the barrage of cascading leaf litter. She was shivering uncontrollably.

Simon stood only inches from her. He longed to gather her into his arms and warm her, shield her from the raging weather, but he believed she would imagine his motivation to be something other than compassion.

‘We will camp here tonight, as soon as this weather eases,' he directed the group.

The rain cleared and with little daylight remaining there was no hope of locating dry ground. Roderick discovered sufficient kindling beneath a hedgerow to start a fire, which Mouse lit with difficulty. Catherine knelt and warmed her chilled fingers over the growing flame.

‘You are wet through,' declared Simon as he studied her intently.

She could not contain the urge to shiver, so stern was his gaze.

‘Take my doublet and spare shirt and change out of that gown.'

‘Surely you do not expect me to dress as a man!'

‘Better that than to take a chill.'

‘I could argue differently,' she retorted.

‘I doubt the illness would bother you much. However, my remedy might,' he threatened.

Catherine rolled her tongue around inside her mouth. She had bitten it badly in Shalford after Anaïs had assaulted her. Her guardian had placed a truly revolting concoction upon the wound that had made her vomit on several occasions. He was right. His remedies left a great deal to be desired.

Catherine hid behind a thicket and struggled out of the tatty remains to don Simon's garb. The linen shirt reached past her knees and the sleeves engulfed her hands. The doublet was heavy, but warm and impregnated with his scent. She returned to the fire and settled upon the blanket offered by Roderick.

‘We have a little bread and some ale … Yes?'

‘Thank you, Roderick, but I fear I have left my appetite in England.'

‘You must eat,' instructed Simon harshly, pushing a dry hunk into her hands.

She ignored his brusque remark, picking dispiritedly at the offering before lying down beside the fire. Simon covered her with his cloak and brushed her cheek with his hand.

‘I am sorry, Simon.'

‘Why do you apologise?'

‘I have angered you, or at least made you very unhappy.'

‘You think yourself the cause of my mood?'

‘I do, of course I do,' she declared, sitting back up. ‘I am a poor choice for a wife.'

‘You think yourself so, yet you were far more willing to marry Roderick. I must therefore be a poor choice of husband.'

‘That is not true,' she declared. ‘I mean … well … what I meant was that he looked less likely to object.'

‘That is only because he is already married!'

‘Oh.'

‘Go to sleep.' His voice was tinged with despair and she watched as he walked away to join the men.

Catherine lay still for some time, desperately tired but unable to find rest. The terrible pain in her chest would not subside and each time she thought of Simon it became worse. She had offended him by suggesting her preference for Roderick as a prospective husband. But she was sure that her guardian did not want to marry her, so why now the churlish behaviour?

Over by the horses, he and the soldiers huddled together, heads bent in conversation. She peeped from lowered lids as Simon tipped the contents of two leather saddle bags onto the ground and the men scavenged through the items. She was sure they were the bags she had seen him take from Salisbury.

‘What in God's name?' spat Guiraud who held aloft a wooden spiked object.

‘I think you'll find that's a Pear of Anguish,' explained Simon.

‘For the torture of others or perhaps for personal enjoyment,' smirked Armand.

‘Well I wouldn't fancy that thing stuck up my arse,' declared Mouse. ‘Don't know how anybody would think that enjoyable.'

‘There are some who prefer the sharp prod of metal over the soft touch of a women,' said Simon, who passed Armand an unrolled piece of parchment.

Catherine watched intently as the manuscript was passed from man to man. It looked like an illuminated page, the coloured ink visible even in the dim light, though she could not make out the image. Each companion examined it at length before Simon rolled it carefully and placed it inside his doublet. The discussion continued as they approached the fire, Guiraud speaking in a thick French dialect that Catherine could not understand.

‘If you are right, the answer lies at Corbie,' replied Simon, reverting to Norman French.

‘I am told that the scroll room is the largest outside Paris,' offered Armand.

‘Let us hope so. If this amounts to nothing, then we may find ourselves visiting your fair capital,' quipped Simon as he piled Salisbury's ill-gotten property onto the fire.

‘Then, my friend, we will find you entertainment enough to wipe a scowl from even your face.'

‘You forget, my brother is a married man,' clarified Roderick.

‘Married, yes,' guffawed Mouse, ‘but I hardly think he will be entertained at home!' A ripple of laughter circled the fire.

Catherine squeezed her lids tightly. In the morning she would speak with her guardian and inform him that she wanted their marriage '
void ab initio.'
She had made a terrible mistake. Instead she would return to England and seek her sister. With her decision made, the suffocating feeling in her chest began to ease.

‘This had better be worth my while.'

Salisbury sneered smugly. ‘I can assure you, my dear, my news will surprise you.'

‘Go on then,' she commanded, sweeping the cloak from her head, long auburn locks cascading across her shoulders.

‘I returned to the church only to discover that a marriage had taken place.'

‘What? Are you suggesting that Cecily is
married
?'

‘Not exactly.' Salisbury leaned back and took a goodly sip of ale. He waited. For once he had the upper hand and he was going to enjoy it for as long as possible. ‘Sit, M'lady and join me.'

‘I did not ride out to this disgusting little inn to share watered down goat's piss with you,' she spat.

‘I thought perhaps you might like to drink to Lady Holland's future happiness.' He paused. ‘Or should that be Lady Wexford?'

‘Cecily married Wexford?'

‘No, she did not.'

‘I don't understand.'

Salisbury smiled. He had her off guard and his pleasure was great. ‘
Catherine
married Wexford.'

‘What? Catherine married Wexford!' she repeated incredulously. ‘That means …'

‘As I suspected,' Salisbury interrupted, ‘Cecily was never the prisoner at Calais Castle. It was Catherine all along.'

‘Then where is Cecily?'

‘I think we must assume that she is in Kent with her lover.'

The noblewoman swore a string of expletives that would shock those who thought they knew her. ‘I cannot deal with Cecily whilst she is in England! This situation needs to be finalised and swiftly.' She sat opposite him and reached for his tankard. ‘Yet I am intrigued. What reason would they have to change places?'

Salisbury watched as she drank down the remainder of his ale. She never ceased to surprise him and even now he could see the many possibilities of their situation travelling across her face.

‘The prince does not know they're identical,' she whispered. A vicious smile played at her lips.

‘No,' agreed Salisbury. ‘He addressed her as Cécile.'

‘Then we must let Edward continue to believe their deception, at least for now. I don't want him rushing off to Kent.'

‘No, not now you are warming his sheets,' Salisbury sniggered. ‘But what if he discovers our ruse?

‘When you bring back the body of Lady Wexford you will have no problem passing it off as her wayward sister,' she stated. ‘Catherine is, after all, still in France, is she not?'

‘Yes, travelling with her husband and four companions.'

‘Then I suggest you hunt them down and remedy my predicament. And get that manuscript back!'

Salisbury stiffened. She had severely berated him when he had, under duress, admitted to the loss.

‘I am sure Wexford will recognise the significance of the image. And now he knows that you, too, hunt the same prize.'

Salisbury bowed from the waist. Two could play these games. He smiled at Joan. ‘As always, I am at your service, Lady Holland.'

‘So, what did you discover?' Cécile peeked out the shutters, impatient for Veronique's arrival. The sky was gloomy, heavy with impending rain and no friendlier than when she had looked ten minutes earlier. If she did not venture downstairs soon then Gillet would leave for the village and she wanted to see him first.

‘Merde.'
She struggled to lace up her kirtle and threw a disgusted look at the stomacher lying on her bed. She could no longer wear it. Donning her dark blue surcotte instead, she widened the ties at the side. Even under layers of loose clothing, her condition was becoming noticeable. What would she do when Gillet would no longer be able to look at her without seeing Edward's child? She inspected a red patch of pimples clustering her chin and grimaced. She had acquired a taste for sweet foods of late and all but heaved at the smell of fish. Cécile glanced out of the casement again and abandoned hope of the maid arriving. She grabbed her pattens and sped downstairs.