The Order of the Lily (38 page)

‘Oh, no, no, no, little chicken. You are Gillet's dinner tonight and there lies an end to it. Amen!' She placed it on the stump, unsure of how to stretch its neck and lop off its head at the same time. ‘Oh, this will not suffice!' Sitting on the stump, she nursed her feathered captive bagpipe-style and wondered what to do next. ‘If only you would close your eyes. I cannot abide your baleful stare.' And with that thought came another and Cécile smiled. With the creature still tightly wedged under her arm, she marched inside and began to search the pantry shelves for the phial of mandrake she knew Gillet kept for medicinal purposes. ‘Aha! Just a drop or two, my feathered friend. Enough to make you sleep but not enough to taint your meat.' Amused at her rhyming, she chortled as she administered a miniscule amount into its beak.

‘Back into the pen you go,

Harken when you wake

Golden brown and toasty warm

Upon my lover's plate!'

She returned the bird to the pen and set about preparing her other dishes whilst waiting for the potion to take effect. First she made some rose petal bread, then chardwardon, the spicy pear sauce that would be served with Swithin cream. The che-bolace, a savoury green soup, simmered happily in its pan as she set aside the batter for
almoundyn eyroun
. She peeled the accompanying vegetables but before sitting down to recoup her strength, she decided to check the bird. Still hoping Gillet would return in time to carry out the necessary deed, she found the creature lying, baking in the hot sun, so Cécile brought it inside. She reverently laid it on the table. Two furry bodies yowled against her legs in protest.

‘Come kitties … a little drink for you both.'

She poured fresh milk into small plates and placed them on the floor beside the bench. Cinnamon lapped greedily, meowing for more but when Cécile refilled the dish, the contrary cat washed her paws instead.

‘Suit yourself,' sighed Cécile as she sat to drink her own perry.

Nutmeg leaped onto her lap, purring as he furtively scrutinised the table's centrepiece. Cécile eyed it anxiously and tickled Nutmeg's ears. ‘If Gillet is much longer, I shall have to don the executioner's mask myself.' Nutmeg's whiskers twitched. ‘Oh, Lord! Did it just move?'

Cécile shooed the cat and finished the preparations for the almond omelette that would serve for midday refreshment. She tapped her foot impatiently. ‘Merde, Jean Petit,' she exclaimed, smoothing her belly. ‘Where
is
he?' Exasperation turned to relief when she heard the telltale clip-clop of hooves. Soon after, Gillet strode into the kitchen.

‘A cup of perry for the working man?' Pleased at his return, Cécile held up an empty goblet.

‘Oui, sweetheart,' answered Gillet as he flung himself into the vacated chair. ‘A cart was stuck …' The rest of his words were lost to Cécile as she retrieved the perry from the pantry. She emerged to hear only his last sentence. ‘I see you want the bird plucked.'

Before she could reply, Gillet wrested a handful of feathers, then all hell broke loose. The chicken, only sated under the meagre dosage of mandrake, came to life and flung itself into the air in a mad, harrowing flutter of wings and claws, screeching like a banshee.

Startled, Gillet leaped from the chair, his arms flailing protectively, but he caught Cinnamon's tail beneath his heel. The cat sprang up rampant and two sets of needle-sharp claws dug into Gillet's leg. The accompanying yowl of both man and animal panicked the chicken further. It became a frantic ball of feathers seeking a means of escape.

Nutmeg decided to join the fun and shot between Gillet's ankles. In trying to avoid another set of claws, Gillet overbal-anced, his foot skidding in Cinnamon's milk dish.

The frenzied chicken picked that moment to fly at his chest. Desperate for balance, Gillet struck out, tipping the bowl of
almoundyn eyroun.
His weight finally gave way and he crashed to the stones, decorated from top to toe in egg batter as the bowl shattered beside him. His mortification was complete when the two cats began licking his face.

Stunned, Cécile watched the windmill display of arms, legs, wings and paws, but at Gillet's fierce glower she quickly quelled her desire to laugh.

Her nose tilted into the air. ‘Yes, my love, I did want the bird plucked, but I was rather hoping that you would kill it first.' She held up the bottle in her hand, barely concealing her mirth. ‘Perry?'

Gillet took himself off to wash, mumbling endlessly about the lack of servants, no hot water, a horse trough, and preferring to have his egg on his plate. Cécile put the freshly killed and plucked bird into the oven, chuckling over the morning's antics. ‘Well, my feathered friend, you had better taste good after the trouble you have caused.' The sight of Gillet fervently plucking the beheaded creature and muttering the entire time had not been encouraging. His repertoire had included words such as ‘silly females', ‘feminine wiles' and ‘more trouble than they are worth.'

With the omelette destroyed they ate bread and cheese in silence. Gillet's manner was still surly but Cécile knew it would pass. He announced he would return to his ledgers in the solar and Cécile cleaned away the dishes, proudly surveying her handiwork. Everything was in order – the rose bread was cooling on the bench, the chardwardon and Swithy cream sitting next to it, and the bird roasting with the vegetables in the oven. She went to change into a clean gown and joined Gillet in the solar where she found him poring over the rent rolls. She slid her arms around his neck and nibbled on his ear. ‘You missed a bit.'

His attention remained fixed on the parchment. ‘A bit of what?'

‘Egg batter. You have some here, also.' Gillet swivelled on his seat and drew her onto his lap. ‘Am I forgiven?' she whispered.

‘Perhaps. I suffered indignities no man should in his own home, and my honour is bruised, not to mention other parts.'

‘Then how can I make you feel better?'

He hoisted her into his arms and, carrying her to the hearth, knelt upon the fur. ‘Does this provide a clue?' His grin was wolfish. ‘The servants are absent, and we have all afternoon. My hurts sorely need tending.'

It was some time later when Cécile roused from her delicious languor. She reached for her gown just as her nose caught the odour of something burning.

‘Gillet!' She shook the dozing man beside her. ‘The chicken! Good Lord! Can you not smell it?'

Hastily donning their discarded garments, they scrambled to the kitchen to find black smoke billowing from the oven. Grimly, Gillet rescued the burned dinner, and tossed the smouldering mess outside. He returned to find Cécile glumly staring at the bench. Cinnamon and Nutmeg meowed their contentment, having entirely devoured the rose bread and pear sauce with cream. Without a word Gillet scooped up the cats and they followed the chicken out the door.

They ate supper in the kitchen, morosely slurping the soup, the only survivor of Cécile's hours of labour. She gathered the empty bowls but Gillet pushed them aside.

‘Leave them. The servants can clear when they return.'

‘Are you still hungry?'

‘I am.'

She rose with a sigh, hoping the pantry would reveal some hidden treasure but Gillet's hand manacled her wrist. His smile was roguish.

‘I did not say I was hungry for food.'

The following Wednesday, Gillet and Cécile were closeted in the solar, the disastrous dinner a memory, as heavy rain and dense mist kept them indoors. Gillet was re-stringing a lute, and Cécile attempted to embroider a baby gown. She threw it into the needlework basket with a huff as a plucked melody tinkled prettily.

‘I had no idea you were so musically accomplished. Armand used to play often, and I would sing,' she mused.

Gillet noted her abandoned needlework and grinned. ‘Do you play?'

‘About as well as I sew,' she snorted. She settled back and tucked her feet beneath her. ‘Play something for me.'

His fingers strummed a pretty tune and Cécile was further surprised by his accompanying rich vocal.

‘Whilst strolling to the market fair, I came across a lady fair,

For whom-so no-one had spoken fair,

And she gifted me with her smile.

I asked her …'

‘Begging your pardon, milord,' Symond appeared in the doorway, looking harried, ‘Sir Thomas Holland of Broughton to see you.'

‘Where is she?'
a voice boomed like a Crécy cannon.
‘Where
is my daughter?
' A burly man pushed past and thrust his dripping cloak at the servant.

‘Sir Thomas Holland!' Gillet jumped to his feet.

‘Where is she? I have galloped from France on the back of impatience. Be assured, lad, I have ridden it into the ground!'

Open-mouthed, Cécile rose from her chair, riveted by the sight of the man physically responsible for her existence.

His large frame fitted snugly into his dark surcotte, a well-worn leather belt knotted around his middle and stretching to his ankles. His damp woollen chausses were spattered with mud and his manner, fierce and rough, was accentuated by a face half-covered with an imposing black eye patch, the cheek beneath densely puckered and disfigured. The only soft aspect in his frightening mien was his short, golden hair – hair the same colour as Cécile's.

‘Sir Thomas,' swallowed Gillet, ‘may I present your daughter, Lady Cécile d'Armagnac.' He encouraged the still gaping Cécile forward.

Thomas' complexion sallowed to the colour of beaten flax. His one eye rolled down, absorbing every detail until it halted indecorously to stare midway at her gown.

Cécile was sure he was not admiring the leafy pattern on her surcotte.

‘Good God,' he roared.
‘What in blazes is that?'

Her cheeks coloured vividly but she lifted her chin. ‘I believe, sir, it is your grandchild.'

Thunderstruck, his jaw fell slack and then he drew a breath that would have sucked the quills from a porcupine. ‘Christ Almighty! Matilda might have warned me.' He shook himself from his reverie and growled. ‘What sort of a greeting is this, girl? Have you neither curtsey nor kiss for your father?'

Numbly Cécile sank into a curtsey and then stepped up to kiss the wholesome side of his face.

‘I begin to understand the meaning behind this summons. My sister should have been more forthcoming,' he said, directing a scathing glare at Gillet. ‘You should have kept your chausses tied, boy, before plundering my stock. And you,' he snarled at Cécile, ‘cast shame on the good name of Holland.'

‘You cannot aspire to know my circumstance,' exclaimed Cécile, affronted. ‘To assume that …'

‘Guard your tongue, girl! Thomas' fist shot out with the speed of a bolt fired from a bow and his palm resounded against her cheek. Gillet suddenly leaped in front of Cécile, one hand thrust onto the burly man's chest.

‘Sir Thomas, please, have a care …'