The Order of the Lily (27 page)

Catherine woke alone the following morning, refreshed and feeling in better health than she had for some time. She broke her fast with Simon, then eagerly accepted his offer to escort her around the Templar complex.

Her husband's knowledge of their architecture and art was astounding. ‘The emblem of the seal, depicting two knights astride one horse, appears on or near all of these buildings,' he explained, ‘but it is not always so easy to identify as the Templars utilised symbolism on many levels. If you look along the sides of the paths about the gardens, you will see that they are lined by seven trees on each side of the seven archways leading to the church,' he explained. ‘The Templars believe that the number seven is associated with perfection and, therefore, incorporate it whenever they can.'

Catherine recalled the hidden parchment.
Seven
white lilies with
seven
names! Perhaps the illumination was far more important than she realised. ‘I thought the Templars had been outlawed,' she said as they turned towards the chapter house.

‘They have. This complex is now under the control of the King and the Knights Hospitaller.'

‘And why do we visit here?'

‘I have a task that must be completed and you have an appointment with a great physician.'

‘I have? Why?'

‘You have been unwell and your sister has an asthmatic illness. I do not wish for your conditions to linger.'

Catherine nodded. If it meant that she could help Cécile, then she would not complain.

‘We are to meet with the Grand Master later today and Nicholas Flamel on the morrow.'

‘Thank you, Simon.' She smiled.

As the sun fell behind the great wall, Simon, Catherine, Armand and Roderick were shown to the Master's house on the far side of the grounds. Catherine waited to be called forward, fascinated by the opulence of the building, for it was courtly rather than religious. They spoke quietly amongst themselves for several minutes until announced.

As Catherine stepped through the doorway, she was struck by a sense of reverence, even though the gentleman was a soldier and not a man of God. His face was round, his eyes slightly protruding and his stature small compared to Simon.

‘Lady Wexford, at last we meet.'

‘Grand Master, it is a great honour,' she began.

Lord Bertrand du Guesclin's name was familiar for he was well known to the French and had been held in high esteem by Anaïs and many of the other maids in the kitchen at Denny Abbey.

‘Have you enjoyed your visit to Paris? Is she all that you imagined?' he asked.

‘I have seen little but what I have glimpsed greatly impresses me.'

‘Now you are married you have no intention of returning to the convent and Lady Pembroke?

‘No, I do not think so.'

‘I see. You have not received any news of her or how she fares?'

Catherine shook her head, perplexed by his odd questions, yet was acutely aware of the stinging guilt, for she realised she had spared little thought for her benefactress or anyone at Denny since her departure.

‘Thank you. You may leave,' he directed.

Catherine stood motionless, confused.

‘You may leave now,' Bertrand reiterated.

‘All is well, Catherine. Return to our quarters,' instructed Simon.

Catherine stood alone in the darkening reception area and watched as the men walked through the open doors at the opposite end of the chamber. Their conversation continued as they turned down a connecting hallway.

She had intended to do as she was told, until she noted the open door to her right. Catherine entered silently and made her way over to a large desk overflowing with books, manuscripts and parchments. She shifted the contents tentatively, and something caught her eye. On a corner of a sheet the Plantagenet coat of arms nestled within the clutter. Sliding it out carefully so as to not dislodge the others, she hurriedly glanced over the contents, but was unable to ascertain its relevance. Stuck almost to its rear was another far more telling script. It had been written by three different hands. The original author, unknown to her, had scrawled a short message across the top in Latin. Unfortunately, she had not been a good scholar and struggled to read the inscription.

The main body of the document was written in French, and began by describing a great battle fought in Scotland, yet she could not concentrate to read it in entirety. Her eye had been captured by the footnote, for beneath it one sentence had been scrawled and signed in a hand she knew well.

I have spoken with her and am sure she knows nothing.

On this, I give you my solemn word.

Ghillebert d'Albret.

Voices in the corridor startled her from her trance. Simon and the Grand Master were returning. With no escape possible, she slid behind the arras.

‘You have had ample opportunity.'

‘Yes, Grand Master, but I have been much engaged,' replied Simon.

‘But not in the manner I had hoped.'

‘There have been complications.'

‘Complications are meant to test, not delay. Time is of the essence. It will not be long before King David of Scotland capitulates and I fear he will bargain a kingdom to ensure his financial freedom.' Bertrand paused, his gaze falling to a large tapestry on the wall. ‘We need this matter contained or rebellion will ensue.'

‘Yes, Grand Master,' answered Simon.

‘The sooner you take command of the Lady, the better.'

Both men stared at the image, and then continued down the corridor in silence, their footsteps echoing on the intricate tiles laid out in uniform pattern.

Catherine could not leave without looking upon what her husband had been studying. She hurriedly entered the corridor and found the picture in question. It was a typical image of a battle scene, the bloodied bodies of men strewn across a field, arrows and shields, lances and daggers. The setting was plain, the vanquished dressed in armour and the victors in kilts, their leader astride a white stallion, his sword held high for all to see. Catherine started. It was the very same weapon depicted in the illumination!

A door slammed in the distance and, lifting her skirt, Catherine dashed back the way she had come, running across the lawn to reach their apartment.

Back in the Templar office the men raised their cups and drank in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Bertrand moved to the shuttered window, Simon at this shoulder. Both men peered across the expanse, their attention drawn to a fleeing woman, her skirts billowing.

‘I believe that is your wife, Lord Wexford.'

Simon's cheeks coloured. ‘Yes, Grand Master.'

Bertrand sipped thoughtfully and raised a brow. ‘It would appear that she is in a great hurry.'

Simon watched, somewhat amused, as Catherine pushed through a dense hedge, rather than go around the long way. ‘It would.'

Roderick suppressed his laugh by coughing.

‘She is feeling well?'

‘It would seem her health is much improved,' added Armand.

Simon shot him a look of disgust.

‘Perhaps she took fright,' suggested Bertrand.

‘If not now, I imagine she will later,' whispered Roderick to Armand, the two smiling broadly.

Simon returned to their quarters in the early hours of the morning, his discussions with the Grand Master taking far longer than anticipated. He intended waiting until she awoke before chastising Catherine for her most unladylike behaviour, but found his temper rising, particularly as she had left a candle burning, the light of which spilled out from under her door.

She was asleep, her golden locks cascading across the pillow, her rosary entwined around her fingers. The sheet sat just above her waist and as he reached to pull it higher she rolled towards him. The ribbon of her chemise had worked loose and he could clearly see her feminine outline. His throat tightened and his immediate thought was to leave, but he was rendered immobile by desire.

‘Simon,' she whispered and opened her eyes.

‘Go back to sleep,' he mumbled gruffly.

‘Is something wrong?'

‘No!' He had not meant to sound churlish, but she was so damn alluring. ‘What did you do after I left you this evening?' he demanded.

‘Nothing,' she lied.

Simon stared at her, unable to believe his ears.

‘You did nothing that others would see as out of character for you?'

Catherine shook her head, though her cheeks were aglow with colour.

Simon moved across the mattress until he was beside her, his face inches from hers. He placed his right hand on her face, spaced out his fingers and combed them through her hair.

Catherine closed her eyes. She did not pull away as he had expected but instead lay completely still.

‘Then, Lady Wexford, perhaps you could explain this?'

He had withdrawn from her hair a small green stick that still had leaves attached.

She said nothing.

‘What am I to do with you?' Simon's voice softened as his gaze shifted once again to the ribbon at her neck, which had found its way undone. Her chemise lay partially open, taunt-ing him and he was unable to pry his eyes from the swell of her breast, now visible beneath the cotton cover. She was so beautiful.