The Order of the Lily (4 page)

The aging servant bowed respectfully. ‘Your visits were ever a pleasure, milord.' His eyes twinkled merrily. ‘The child I knew has grown into a man.'

‘Ha! Well you have not changed one jot. It does my heart good to see you again.'

Symond flushed with pleasure and raised his bushy brow at the blonde-haired woman hovering a few paces behind. The chestnut mare she had just relinquished was trotting with determination after the stallion. Armand tugged Cécile forward.

‘Symond, meet my cousin, Cécile d'Armagnac. She is to be Gillet's guest for a while.'

The old man bowed. ‘A pleasure, Mademoiselle d'Armagnac.'

‘Symond used to look after me when I came to visit Gillet as a child,' explained Armand. ‘He would fuss over our scrapes and bruises when our swords were nothing but wood and our ponies were barrels on pulley ropes.'

Symond cleared his throat with the dignity of a privileged servant. ‘Speaking of ponies, milord, I could not help but notice you rode in on Milord Ghillebert's horse. I trust all is well, sir?'

‘Gillet was due to sail with us but was recalled to the Prince's service at the last minute,' replied Armand. ‘Since my horse had not boarded, it was easier to swap beasts rather than unload Inferno. Gillet will be joining us soon.'

‘He is taking up winter residence this year?' The servant's voice had risen on a note of surprise.

Armand frowned at the varlet's expression. ‘I believe that was his plan. Is something amiss?'

The aging servant stroked the sides of his mouth with thumb and forefinger. ‘I just thought, sir, naturally that with the arrival of Lord Arnaud that …'

Armand's eyes grew wide. ‘Gillet's brother is here?'

‘Yes, milord. Monsieur Arnaud and his wife arrived last week. They intend upon staying, er, until spring at the very least.' Out of the corner of his eye, Symond saw Cécile shudder. ‘Perhaps you should come inside, milord. The Mademoiselle is cold.'

Armand allowed the servant to gain a discreet lead before grasping Cécile's elbow. ‘This could be good news,' he whispered hurriedly, ‘for it means that I can return to France immediately, but say nothing of your predicament –
none of
it!
The truth will serve no purpose here.'

They were led to the main hall and Cécile's eyes widened at the opulence. The walls were sumptuously decorated with rich, colourful hangings and polished shields. Panelled coffers stood against one wall but her eyes were drawn to the magnificent carved rose marble fireplace. It befitted royalty.

Two high-backed chairs were strategically positioned before the generous hearth and, at Symond's announcement, a body occupying one unfolded and stood. Cécile gasped. The likeness to Gillet was remarkable, slightly taller but the same bone structure and black hair. This older version was thinner though, lending his face a gaunt, haunted look, even when taken in surprise.

‘Armand! God's bones! What are you doing here?'

‘Greetings, cousin.' The men embraced with a formal restraint. ‘Gillet had not thought the manor inhabited,' said Armand as if that explained his presence well enough.

A glint of displeasure flashed in the other man's eyes. ‘One cannot leave an estate this size unattended. The servants will run amok! Amanieu wished for his winter retreat and we had received no word as to whether Ghillebert was coming home.' His eyes strayed to Cécile with frank curiosity.

‘Gillet has been granted leave from court,' replied Armand, ‘but he is delayed, and so, in his stead, I escort my cousin who is to be Gillet's guest for a while. May I present the Lady Cécile d'Armagnac.'

‘Armagnac?'
Cécile watched as the man's eyebrows shot up with such force she thought they would fly off his face. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘You are a long way from home, Mademoiselle. What brings you so far north?'

‘Cécile stayed the summer in Paris,' offered Armand, ‘but with England's goodwill in releasing our king, I was commissioned to Calais before I had chance to return her home. Your brother, whom she met in the city, has offered his hospitality until suitable arrangements can be made.'

‘Really? How admirable of him. Paris in the winter is not to your taste, Mademoiselle?' Arnaud's lip curled sardonically as he offered a seat.

‘No, Monsieur. The bloodshed was not to my taste.' Cécile tipped her head in acknowledgment and gratefully took the weight from her feet. Gillet's brother returned to his chair, bellowing for Symond to bring wine. He crossed his parti-coloured stockinged legs and rocked the upper one, a habit Cécile instantly found annoying.

‘So, how is my little brother? Still licking the Prince's arse like an affectionate lapdog and fetching royal bones from all over the countryside?' The soft leather-padded soles swung closer and Cécile firmly clamped her mouth lest she be tempted to snap at the conceited, pointy toes.

‘The last I heard he was,' said Armand, arranging himself on a velvet cushioned stool, ‘but then, employed as envoy to the Prince of Wales is bound to keep a man busy … and rich.'

To Cécile's astonishment Arnaud burst out laughing. ‘I forget how well you protect my brother's back, cousin.' He leered at Cécile, one eye turning independent of the other. She glanced away, disarmed by this unsavoury trait, and resisted a strong urge to cross herself. Upon further inspec-tion though, she understood something she had not hitherto realised. In a family renowned for its ‘devilishly handsome looks', vibrant blue eyes and hair of raven black, some saying the ancient Gascons of Albret had ‘sold their souls to the Devil himself,' small wonder she had never considered Gillet connected. His eyes were of the deepest brown.

‘Did you know, Lady d'Armagnac,' Arnaud was saying, ‘that Armand visited us many times in his youth?'

‘Yes,' she replied, unsure which eye to direct her gaze upon. ‘My loss was ever your gain.'

‘Ah, but of course.' Arnaud stroked his top lip and glanced back at Armand. ‘You were serving under Armagnac at the time. It's as well that you bring the lady yourself, Armand,' he conceded with a strained laugh, ‘otherwise I might have thought there were hidden motives.'

‘Political conjuring?' Armand laughed in reply. ‘I vouchsafe that plays no part.'

Arnaud's attention was distracted as a willowy girl entered the hall. Her autumn green gown was of the finest Flemish wool and beneath a ruffled cap, strawberry blonde hair curled with discipline over her ears, held in place by a crispinette. The accompanying barbette framed the delicate features of her young, pretty face.

‘Marguerite! Come, meet your cousins.' Arnaud stood, his eyes glowing possessively as they rested upon his wife's maternal carriage. ‘May I present the Lady d'Albret, Marguerite de Narbonne. As you can see, she has finally consented to do her duty and provide me with an heir.' He presented the mien of a doting husband as he led her to the nearby alcove seat but Cécile's skin prickled at his condescending tone. She slid into a curtsey as Armand bowed.

‘Armand-Amanieu d'Albret from Labrit, and his maternal cousin, the Lady Cécile d'Armagnac,' introduced Arnaud. Cécile warmly returned Marguerite's shy smile, wondering what Gillet would think when he learned the nursery of his home was to have two new inhabitants. It took all her willpower to refrain from rubbing her own small protuber-ance, hidden by the cut of her surcotte.

‘As you can see, Marguerite will soon be in confinement. We intend to spend the winter quarter here.'

Armand raised Marguerite's hand to his lips, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘I am sure Gillet will be pleased to learn of his new nephew,' he grinned, ‘or niece, as am I for greeting a new cousin. Madame, you are as radiant as Mother Earth herself.'

‘Ha,' scoffed Arnaud. ‘Tilled soil she was but fertile she was not!' He grabbed Marguerite's chin and turned it to face him. ‘But even the poorest field, when regularly ploughed, must eventually yield a crop, eh, my love.'

Marguerite blushed and cast her gaze to the floor. Armand still held her hand, and tactfully she withdrew it.

The men's attention was redirected to the arrival of the wine. Three things did Cécile notice in that one moment. Marguerite's hand was misshapen, the smallest finger jutting out at an odd angle. Her rapid blush had paled to a sickly grey, and when she glanced at her husband's broad back, it was with fear.

‘No, I must return to France on the first tide,' Armand was saying as he returned with two goblets of wine. He handed one to Cécile with a wink. ‘I have a pressing duty to which I must attend.'

‘My wife will be grateful for female company,' replied Arnaud, seating himself once more as Armand furnished Marguerite with a drink. ‘I scarce have time to play wet nurse. Ghillebert should have been here a month ago. There is much to be done before the onset of winter.' The men's talk shifted to trade and the latest consignments. England's court had established a fondness for Gascon wine and the Albret vine-yards in France were profiting well.

Cécile relinquished her chair to Armand and moved to the alcove seat. ‘How long before you expect your babe?' she asked Marguerite, smiling warmly. To her amazement, the young woman turned away, tears filling her eyes. Some moments elapsed as she struggled for control.

‘Forgive me,' she whispered, turning back. ‘I am all of a dither lately. I believe it was three to four weeks at the last reckoning. And please call me Margot.' She glanced at her husband again, only this time, instead of just fear, there was hate. ‘My name is Margot.'

When Armand departed the following morning Cécile felt desperately alone. Not since their parting in Arras had she felt so miserable. Margot kept to her chamber and Arnaud took up his duties on the estate, content to ignore her. Cécile saw them only at supper, a brief affair in which they ate in silence and the void of conversation was filled with Arnaud's slurping and belching.

The days dragged on, each hour clawing at its predecessor's heels with indeterminable slowness. Cécile visited Ruby and Inferno but even these visits began to irritate her as the stable boys regarded her with mixed awe and suspicion. The sight of her hand-feeding their most difficult charge, and he, nuzzling with the docility of a unicorn in a myth, gave rise to nervous whispers and many signings of the cross.

‘Your master will come,' whispered Cécile, ignoring the stable boys as Inferno snuffled into her hair. ‘He will not abandon us.' But each day dawned and darkened with no word.

By the fifth day Cécile seated herself on a bench beneath an aged oak, her soul steeped in melancholy. Her humours felt out of balance or perhaps, she thought, her stars had come into Saturn's orbit and the malicious planet was executing its baleful influence. She took stock of her life in the hope of counting good fortune. She was alive, albeit in her enemy's land with no family, and the man she loved, wrongly accused as traitor, was held prisoner – or worse. She was afflicted with a malady of the lungs; carrying a bastard child to the heir of England; barely reconciled with her twin sister, who was also in grievous danger; the Earl of Salisbury hunted them with accusations of retribution, wrongdoings in his life for which he held them accountable on behalf his former wife, their mother.

Cécile had recently learned that she was only the foster-child of Armagnac, her true sire being Thomas Holland, the Earl of Kent, in whose province she was now hiding from the Prince of Wales, father to her unborn child. And the manor she was in belonged to his staunchest supporters, the Albrets, of whom she had just learned her beloved was one! The current occupants of the house ignored her, and the stable boys thought her a spectre from the underworld. Cécile could hold back her tears no longer.

‘Lady d'Armagnac.' A shadow fell across her misted vision and Margot eased herself onto the seat with the help of her maid. She dispatched the girl to the kitchen to fetch two hot possets. ‘Veronique has the ears of an elephant and chatters like a monkey,' said Margot, watching with affection as her maid sped off, ‘but she is loyal to me.' She held out a linen square to Cécile. ‘I am not supposed to leave my chamber but I had to come. I saw you from my casement and you looked so lonely. Forgive me for not having made you feel more welcome. I have come to make amends.'