The Order of the Lily (35 page)

Oh fie
.'

Real panic set in and she trudged back to the jug and filled her cup before spinning to perform the most elegant curtsey she could manage.

‘Maybe if I dazzle her with my finesse no one will notice the silly creature lying in its cage. Oops!' She giggled as she slipped to one side and landed indelicately on her bottom. ‘Well! That was charming, Lady d'Armagnac.' She giggled again. ‘Perhaps I have indulged in enough curtseying. The floor keeps moving.' Regaining her stance, she tippled her way to the table. ‘Merde! Gillet told you not to cause mischief. What is the Lady Matilda going to think of her niece killing the bird? Oooh … Gillet is certain to roar.'

As she topped up her goblet, she imagined him towering over her, and it suddenly seemed hilarious. Her arms flew up to imitate an attacking bear.

‘Roar!'

Then a new thought made her splutter outright.

‘Oh,' she squealed, doubling over hysterically, ‘Ghil-
bear
! Oh, oh. Ghil-
bear
d'Albret! The culddiest … culddiest … cuddliest bear in all England.' She flung out her arms once more and knocked the jug. Blood red wine sloshed over the white damask coverlet.
'Merde.'
Cécile caught the jug and tried to stop the stain from spreading but she was laughing too hard. ‘Oh, dear. Cécile d'Armagnac, this is hardly the behaviour of a lady, and you are a lady. Well,' she snorted and rolled her eyes, ‘most of the time, anyway. Ooh, ooh.' She held her aching stomach and wiped her eyes, then spied her salvation.

‘Aha!' She wove across to the wooden bench and, retrieving a cushion, whipped off its white cover. Quickly now she removed the items from the soaked table and laying the cushion cover to hide the offending stain, returned the accoutrements.

‘Perfec … hic! …tion!'With all the stately splendour she could muster Cécile refilled her cup and sipped with grace, then noticed the naked cushion sitting amongst its colourful companions. ‘Well, that's as obvious as a blacksmith in a ladies' sewing circle! And it will certainly draw the attention of Lord Serious.' A hiccough strangled her giggle as she trudged back to the seat. ‘Guinevere gets Sir Lancelot … hic! … and I get Sir Rants-a-lot. Not that I have any com … hic! … plaints about
his
lance,' she guffawed. Suddenly she heard footsteps. ‘Oh gracious, Camelot is coming.'

She looked for somewhere to hide the cushion. The door began to open. Gillet appeared with Lady Matilda close behind him. He froze in the doorway in complete shock.

‘Ghil-bear!' The pent-up laughter begged release and Cécile howled her amusement, the cushion dislodging from beneath her gown to roll out at her feet.

The untimely arrival of the cushion and Gillet's horrified face was the decoction of sobriety that she needed. She was unhorsed as ceremoniously as a tumbled jouster and crashed back to earth with a thud. ‘I … I … I was amusing myself, just as you said, Gillet.' Her lip quivered and her large blue eyes filled with tears. ‘But, I spilt the wine … and stained the cloth … and I cannot perfect my curtsey, and … and …' A loud hiccough burst from her. The wail that followed it was ripe with alcoholic grief. ‘I squashed Lady Matilda's tit!'

Gillet recovered his wit and marched into the room, neatly capturing Cécile's wrist in passing. ‘I was gone barely more than an hour,' he hissed. ‘How much wine have you drunk?' He deposited her onto the seat, and she watched, severely subdued, as he investigated the cage. He lifted the feathered body onto his palm and gently stretched out a wing. Slowly, it folded back into place. He repeated the process, suspiciously sniffing at it.

‘It is not dead, Lady Matilda,' Gillet announced, turning. He offered an apologetic bow and darted Cécile a frown. ‘However, I fear your pet and your niece share the same state. They are both gloriously drunk.'

‘I am so sorry, Gillet,' cried Cécile wretchedly. Another hiccough was her undoing, and she burst into tears. ‘I didn't mean to make you serious!'

‘Make me?' His voice rose with amazement. ‘What on Earth
made you
do this?' He flung out his arm, neatly encompassing her misdemeanours within his sweep.

‘I didn't do it,' Cécile sniffed and wiped her nose along her sleeve. ‘The bird alighted on my goblet and helped itself to my cup, and I was beguiled but then it collapsed and I was horrified and I spilt my wine so I used the cushion cover to conceal it, but then the bare cushion looked ridiculous sitting on the couch and …'

‘And it was better hiding under your skirts?'

‘I … was trying …' Another loud hiccough finished the sentence.

Gillet's expression wavered. He coaxed Cécile to her feet and pressed her against his shoulder. ‘Hush now. I, of all people, know how trying you are. Come, take a breath, put on a smile and greet your aunt – without the cushion this time.'

Gillet held her out on his arm and bowed to the woman waiting by the door. ‘Lady Matilda, may I present, slightly worse for wear, your niece, Cécile d'Armagnac.'

Cécile spread out her gown elegantly and sank into a deep curtsey worthy of a Valois court before she hiccoughed again.

‘Oh, my darling child!' Lady Matilda clapped her hands together and chortled with delight. ‘I would not have missed this introduction for one to King Edward himself.' She moved into the room and swooped Cécile into her embrace.

Gillet leaned against the desk and folded his arms. ‘You will find this hydra-headed niece far more exasperating than her counterpart, Lady Matilda,' he warned. He eyed the wine-stained cloth and shook his head. ‘I shall offer recompense now for all the losses you may suffer during our visit.'

‘Nonsense, my dear boy! When the Lady Blanche of Sussex was with child, she was so clumsy her husband had to engage a potter's wheel to work daily for his table for six months! I am just delighted to have you here and besides, Cécile's impulsive nature and her vitality is something to be cherished.' She flicked her ringed hand at the damaged cloth and, unable to keep her face straight any longer, she burst into hearty laughter. ‘Although you might be well advised to have some looms weaving on your behalf now.'

Gillet smiled. ‘Indeed. Then with your permission, I shall leave you to your niece in private. Bertram has promised me a tour of the stables.'

‘Yes, by all means, Gillet, go. Leave me to get acquainted with my niece.'

The afternoon passed in tears and laughter and before Cécile knew it evening was upon them. She retired to her room after dinner and, feeling an overpowering desire to be alone, dismissed Minette. The fullness her heart had encountered during the afternoon hours suddenly plummeted. Cécile moved to the shuttered window and gazed out over the great blue lake that was shimmering in the last of the evening light. A flock of plovers flew over and dipped into the water. Melancholy fell upon her, and suddenly she envied their freedom, their carefree, light manner. How simple would life be if she and Gillet could just fly away?

A clean chemise was laid out upon her travelling chest but thoughts of sleep abandoned her. She perched at the casement and stared out into the realm of Holland, idling over what life might have been like raised as a twin in such a serene setting. Would they have caused havoc with the servants? Her lips twitched into a half-smile. Perhaps they would have even pretended to be each other on occasions. Her thoughts wandered to Catherine. After long moments, she shook herself and moved to where a set of rosary beads hung from a hook. Her heart clenched. She had asked Aunt Matilda to let her stay in Catherine's chamber but now she wondered at the wisdom of such a whim. She took the beads down and gathered them to her breast, her eyes welling. A small dish sat upon a shelf and, lifting the lid, Cécile found some coloured ribbons curled inside. She took out a blue one. Strands of gold clung to the silk and, pulling them free, she held them to her own hair, the colour a perfect match. Hot tears slid down her cheeks. How much had been denied them – an entire childhood. In that one moment, Cécile hated her parents, hated that they had never tried to find and re-unite her with her sister. For a life's worth of living, the time she could remember spent with Catherine filled less than an hour. She fell upon the bed and sobbed into the goose-down coverlet.

‘I suspected your over-indulgence this afternoon might leave you feeling raw by evening.' Strong hands lifted her from the bed and Cécile found herself cuddled on Gillet's lap. ‘Crying for a lost childhood?'

‘Why did my mother never come for me, Gillet?

‘Lady Matilda said it was too dangerous. Salisbury was always watching.'

‘That is an excuse, not a reason. How could any woman abandon her children? I don't think she wanted us.'

Gillet stared over the top of her head at the far wall, his expression guarded. ‘From what I know of Joan, she does not like inconvenience. However, Matilda is convinced your father may think differently.'

‘Really?'

‘She thinks I should petition him outright for your hand.'

Cécile pulled back. ‘Would that be a wise move? It will draw attention to us.'

‘It might. That would depend upon Thomas Holland.' He kissed her brow. ‘We may have to take that chance but for now, put it from your mind, sweetheart. Try and sleep now and tomorrow I will take you to see Saint Mary's church. It is where you were christened.'

The outing to Saint Mary's also fulfilled Gillet's yearning to see inside the dovecote. The local priest was only too happy to comply. He led them down into the columbariurn, the inside cool and dark, rank with the musty odour of hay and droppings. The only light came from a small window through which the pigeons, numbering nearly one thousand, were able to fly in and out at will, to and from their nesting boxes.

‘They provide up to three and a half tons of pigeon meat each year,' exclaimed the priest, plumping up as proudly as the cooing males above. ‘The females have an exceptionally short breeding cycle, a pair of eggs every six weeks and they continue at this rate for seven years. For the small cost incurred, it is a highly lucrative venture, Monsieur d'Albret.' The men inspected the massive central post and the pivoting apparatus attached to the ladder, which allowed access to the different levels of nesting boxes.

Cécile lost interest in the discussion of the intricate machinery and excused herself to escape into the fresh air in churchyard. Gillet met her outside a short time later, grinning.

‘You look mightily pleased with yourself.' Cécile grabbed at her veil as Gillet hoisted her into the air and swung her around.

‘I shall build one! We can fill your chamber aumbry with pigeon pies for midnight snacks.'

‘In Chilham?'

‘No, in Bellegarde.' He set her down and offered his arm with courtly grace. Leisurely they strolled onto the downs and Gillet spoke of his hope for the future. Listening to him, Cécile's heart grew wings and soared to the sky to fly alongside Saint Mary's pigeons.