The Order of the Lily (26 page)

The weather did not improve, to which Catherine's chapped skin and chilblained fingers could attest. Wrapped in blankets she lay in the back of the canopied cart, dozing peacefully as they meandered across the French countryside. Simon sat up front with Armand, the two talking animatedly, and both laughed on several occasions. She assumed that her husband's mood had improved.

Catherine shivered and drew her coverings close, but a corner of one was trapped beneath the travelling chest. As she tugged it free a leather cylinder rolled towards her. Catherine knew that Simon kept his important documents therein, but the ties had worked loose and the contents jostled to be released. She meant to secure it but was gripped by the urge to peer inside. Surreptitiously she reached in and removed the uppermost piece of parchment, smoothing it under the cover of her cloak.

It was the illumination that Simon had extracted from Salisbury. A large letter L in the centre had been decorated with gold. Red tendrils weaved their way across the page to cover the original depiction, which looked to be a sword of plain appearance. Seven white lilies were scattered throughout, but it lacked depth and colour and appeared to be an unfinished work. Resisting the urge to gasp aloud, her eyes widened at the recent additions scrawled across the page. In a much darker ink seven names had been added, each one scratched into the surface of an enlarged bract,
Martin de Brie, Guiraud d'Albret, Gabriel de Beaumont de l'Oise, Armand-Amanieu d'Albret, Roderick of Shalford and Ghillebert d'Albret.
Atop the list was
Simon Marshall!

She stared at the image for some time, sure that this was the very depiction that her husband had wanted the boy at the abbey to identify, the parchment he had hidden from her.

The cart bumped over a deviation, making her heart jump with fright. Catherine rolled the page and deftly returned it to the cylinder, burying her head into the pillows.

The mystery did not only involve Simon. All the men in her life and a good many in Cécile's had been named. What were they up to and why were their names scrawled across what had been a beautiful illumination?

‘It would seem my spies are better than yours,' boasted Joan Holland, pushing into his room without knocking, ‘for I received word our quarry is in Paris. Yet I find you here, face down on a whore!'

Salisbury turned from the young woman beneath him and pulled the sheet up to his waist.

Joan's eyes travelled to the very thing he had covered and he smiled conceitedly. ‘Wine?' She waited until the maid hurriedly departed with tatty chemise and gown in hand. ‘I thought your taste lent itself elsewhere?'

‘When you have little coin you must endure that which you can afford.'

She turned up her nose and sat at the small side table, waiting while he dressed.

‘If you want me to ride to Paris you will have to provide me with funds,' Salisbury continued.

‘You have enough for a prostitute!'

‘I caught her rifling through my purse. She elected pleasure over pain,' he explained as he donned his shirt

‘So I have interrupted your punishment. I apologise.'

‘Have no thought. It was not pleasurable. I would have preferred the alternative.'

Ignoring his comment she waited for him to sit opposite. ‘I have learned that Lord Wexford did not proceed directly to Paris, but instead spent time at Corbie Abbey.'

Salisbury's face was blank.

‘Does it not seem a little more than coincidence that he should choose to take his new bride to one of the largest scrip-toria in France?' chided Joan.

‘The Lady,'
he spat.

‘He seeks to identify the author of the illumination.'

‘Yes, for they would lead him directly to her! So, what now?'

Joan leaned forward, her smile tinged with malicious intent. ‘Question Catherine. Find out what she knows and what she has told her husband.'

‘And then?'

‘Do what you will,' she sneered.

‘What makes you think Wexford can find the Lady?'

‘I don't, but one thing I know without doubt. If he is anything like his uncle, then we have a great deal to fear from my new son-by-marriage.'

Simon, Catherine and their escorts came to rest alongside a high, crenellated wall, the length of which continued endlessly into the darkness, turrets spaced along its distance.

At the intersection ahead the traffic had come to a halt and a large contingent of soldiers stood idly by. None were directing the mayhem. Simon veered the cart off the road under cover of a high, stone arch that housed two enormous oak doors. Roderick, Armand and the men followed behind.

Simon pulled down on a woven cord and waited. His gaze, though, darted to the moving throng in the street. A small hatch slid back from a spyhole, the man on the opposite side conversing with Lord Wexford in a language Catherine did not recognise. A loud thud ensued as the heavy wooden doors opened and they were quickly ushered inside.

Though it was dark, she could distinguish the outlines of numerous buildings around them. There appeared to be a large church to the left and a most impressive tower in the centre, with various covered pathways leading to the main entrance.

‘Lord Wexford, I am to accompany you to your accommodation.' The short man was humbly dressed, wearing a white robe tied around the waist with a black sash. ‘We have taken the liberty of preparing the guest wing for you and your travelling party.'

‘Please convey my thanks to the Grand Master for his consideration.'

The escort nodded. ‘I will do so my Lord.'

They were conducted to a square building, one side of which was attached to the chapter house. They ascended the spiral stairs of the tower to the second floor, whereupon their guide stepped aside to present a reception room with sleeping quarters situated at either end. A fire was lit, the place warm and inviting, and a tray of victuals had been set out on the table.

‘They were expecting us,' declared Catherine as she removed her cloak.

‘They were,' confirmed Simon, closing the door on the departing consort. ‘Sit and I will explain.'

Catherine poured the wine and savoured the rich liquid, waiting expectantly for what was to come.

‘Do you know this place?' he asked her.

‘Judging by the “agnus dei” inside the gate, I would have to assume it is connected to the Templars.'

‘The lamb and chalice is the representation of the Holy Jesus carrying the weight of the cross,' he explained, tossing his doublet over the ornate timber chair. ‘This is the Parisian headquarters of the Templar Knights. Do you recall me telling you about them?'

‘Yes, and their ugly demise on Friday the thirteenth of October.'

‘Then you will remember that it was the Templars who encouraged me to travel to the East and learn the art of healing?'

‘Where you met Amina?' she interjected.

‘Yes. But I was also fortunate to meet many other notable individuals and one in particular, whom I would like you to see whilst we are in Paris.'

Their conversation was interrupted by Armand and his men, whose laughter and boisterous behaviour echoed through the narrow building. They were at ease, comfortable and able to relax their guard, something that had been impossible whilst travelling the roads to the capital.

Catherine was suddenly aware of how little she knew of them and their backgrounds, and the relationships that existed between them. The six men supping obviously knew each other well, but were more reserved and never spoke of serious matters in her company. Each time she had witnessed them, heads bowed and deep in conversation, they believed she was asleep or occupied elsewhere. Her gaze slipped to the leather cylinder haphazardly discarded along with her husband's cloak. Catherine rose from the table and excused herself. She made her way to the smallest of the two sleeping rooms and pushed the door behind her, making sure not to completely close it. The bed dominated the space and left little room for anything else. She removed her cloak and sat beneath the drapes and waited patiently. She had to provide them with sufficient time, without creating suspicion. She had to know. Would the nature of their talk alter once she was no longer present?

Tiptoeing to the door, she peered through the gap. She could see them quite clearly, their shoulders hunched, heads lowered, and they spoke in whispered tones. As she changed her position Catherine could just see Simon's cloak and cylinder, the latter open and the contents removed.

She sat back upon the bed and considered the possibilities, but knew she was right. They were deliberately keeping something from her. She adjusted her skirt, drew back the door and walked purposefully to her place at the table. Mouse laughed heartily and slapped Guiraud on the back as Simon skilfully retrieved a number of parchments. Armand immediately rose and stepped in front of her, taking her fingers and bringing them to his lips. His smile was genuine, but she knew he was creating a diversion. They did not want her to see the sword illumination, which had now been secreted away.

The banter continued into the evening but, unable to com-pete with their camaraderie, Catherine retired to her sleeping quarters. Simon's chest had not been placed beside hers at the foot of the bed and she was unsure if this pleased her or not. The idea of privacy after weeks on the road with six men was welcome. Yet the thought of Simon's absence left her empty and confused. Then again, sharing one room and one bed with your new husband was a daunting thought. She felt safe when the men were but a stone's throw away, sprawled across the floor beside her or camped around a fire. If Simon chose to occupy her chamber, they would be alone for the first time in their marriage. Her heart raced but she could not decide whether it was with anticipation or trepidation. Yet one thing was clear. She was no longer frightened.