The Order of the Lily (50 page)

Catherine took a deep breath as though she were about to dive into deep water. ‘I heard you speak the name Cletus.'

Simon frowned. It would appear that he had kept little from her, after all.

‘Sister Mary Cletus is an illuminator who retired to Denny Abbey. I believe she was struck mute, for I have never heard her speak.'

Simon rose to his feet and smacked one clenched fist to the other open palm. ‘Mute but not deaf, nor blind! She must have either seen the sword at Denny or heard it discussed, then painted what she had learned of it into an illumination. But why would she do so?'

‘She is Scottish,' Catherine revealed. ‘And I can't imagine she was pleased to see a precious Scottish relic hidden within an English Abbey.'

‘I doubt my aunt would allow Sister Cletus to remain within her congregation if she knew of her background.'

‘Cause then to become mute?' Catherine suggested.

‘Cause indeed,' Simon agreed.

‘I wish you had consulted me earlier as we would not have needed to travel all over France!' she exclaimed indignantly.

‘It would have changed nothing, other than to confirm my suspicions. The boy at Corbie Abbey was sure the illumination had been painted by a woman, but it was the Abbott who muttered the name Cletus. Should I have discovered the truth I was still required in Paris.' He reached for the poker and prodded at the embers in the fireplace.

‘Why is the sword called the Lady?' Catherine asked.

Settling beside her on the bed, Simon stretched out his long legs. ‘To answer that I must tell you something of William Wallace and his desire to free his people. You see, he and I have something in common. We both fell in love with a beautiful, young maiden.'

Catherine blushed in response to his confession.

‘Unfortunately, his happiness was not to last, for it is believed that the Shire Reeve of Lanark murdered his bride. William, consumed by grief, exacted revenge by killing not only the hapless sheriff, but hundreds of English soldiers in an attempt to free his people from foreign rule.'

‘And the Lady?'

‘After Marion's death Wallace said he would have no other lady by his side, other than his sword, his Lady Liberator.'

Simon gathered Catherine into his embrace and wondered what he would do should his wife meet the same ends as Marion. Perhaps he too would be consumed by the same murderous intent as the fabled Scotsman.

They lay in each other's arms for some time, the candle all but spent.

‘And you are the Lady Mary's nephew?' mused Catherine.

‘Yes, I am.'

It was hard to believe, after all the years she had been known as Catherine Pembroke, she was now related by marriage to the very woman who had given her that name. ‘What will you do with the Lady once you find it?'

‘I am to return it to Paris. The Templars do not wish it to fall into English hands.'

‘Then why do they not give it back to the Scots?'

‘The Grand Master does not trust King David. He feels David would sell his own mother to gain his freedom, and you forget the man is married to Edward's sister.'

Catherine shook her head as she tried to make sense of it all.

‘The Lady is a powerful instrument. Should it become widely known that it is missing, the Scots will blame the English and the uneasy truce will fall apart. The Grand Master believes it should reside in Paris, on neutral ground, or they will hide it in one of their many temples vaults.'

‘But what do you think?'

‘I am really not sure.'

‘So we will look for her at Denny?'

‘I had thought to go alone.'

‘No, Simon, I can help you. I know every hiding place, every crevasse. It will make the search easier if I am at your side. And I am known to Sister Cletus. She is more likely to communicate with me than you.'

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. ‘First we shall see Gillet and your sister and decide the fate of Gabby. Then we will visit my aunt, to whom I will introduce my new wife.'

Catherine listened to her husband's gentle snores as he slept beside her. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined she would marry her guardian's nephew. All this time she had been raised by his aunt. She grunted softly. Had Simon ever visited the abbey? Had their paths crossed earlier and she had not realised? Her mind whirled at the possibility.
I must ask him,
she thought, drifting into sleep as she tried recalling the endless visitors she had watched come and go at Denny over the years.

Cécile padded across the cold floor to the casement and peeked out into the stable yard below to watch the beautiful snow-white mare, its silver tail flying like a pennant. Gillet had named her Starlight. He had presented the horse to her before he departed for Paris. ‘If we are to put Ruby in foal this year, you will need another horse to ride,' he'd explained. Then he kissed her, long and hard, and was gone.

The first week passed slowly, Cécile's only joy a letter from her sister. Over and over she read how Gabriel had saved the baby – Gillet's son, a child who would soon enter her life. She happily anticipated her twin's arrival and her own babe was due any time now. Catherine would help her. Cécile pushed aside the fear that still her babe had not turned. She glanced over to her maid, Minette, who was quietly embroidering a tiny gown by the fire, a wistful smile upon her lips.

A knock at the door disturbed their serenity. One look at Alfred's face was enough to know that something was dread-fully amiss.

‘Lady d'Armagnac, we have visitors,' he announced solemnly. ‘Seigneur de Vertheuil and his brother are waiting in the hall, and they request your immediate presence.'

‘Seigneur who?' Cécile's attention was distracted as Minette gasped and her needlework tumbled to the floor. The reaction set Cécile's nerves on edge. ‘Who are these men to request anything of me at such a time?' she asked, bewildered.

‘Seigneur de Vertheuil, milady,' affirmed Alfred, ‘is Amanieu, the eldest of the Albrets, and the other you already know as Arnaud.'

She felt the blood drain from her cheeks. ‘Arnaud has returned?'

Alfred bowed. ‘They seem to be aware of the fact that Milord Ghillebert is not in residence, but they say that it is you to whom they wish to speak.'

Cécile stared, dull witted, the power of speech temporarily deserting her, but eventually finding its way in a tortured whisper. ‘What do they want with me?'

‘Naturally, I informed them that you are in a tender state of health, but they ask me to tell you that, if you do not wish to appear in the hall, they will come to your chamber.'

‘No!' Her heart raced. ‘Alfred, give me a moment to com-pose myself.'

Alfred bowed again and stepped outside to wait. Minette dived for the chest, pulling out a warm, woollen gown and surcotte. Quickly Cécile dressed and Minette braided her mistress' hair, then Alfred assisted her down the stairs. She paused at the bottom, out of breath and desperately trying to control the wild beating of her heart. What did Gillet's brothers want with her? Arching her back to relieve the dull pain, she moved at a snail's pace into the hall.

The two brothers stood with their backs to the fire, and glowered at her entrance.

Seigneur Amanieu was the taller, but of a heavier build and broader across the chest. Though older, his clearly chiselled features bore the Albret charm and distinction, his likeness to Gillet remarkable. Arnaud was as Cécile remembered. He sneered at her.

‘Lady d'Armagnac,' said Amanieu, ‘please be seated.' He indicated one of the chairs in front of the hearth. ‘That will be all, Captain de Vernon.'

Alfred bowed, but did not relinquish his place, his eyes set upon his mistress.

‘I said that will be all, Captain. Be sure to close the door.' Amanieu clasped his hands behind his back and nodded to his younger brother. ‘You were right. We have little time to spare.'

Arnaud's answering grin filled Cécile with horror. His cheeks bore three silver lines from where she had scratched him.

‘I will come straight to the point, Lady d'Armagnac. I am Amanieu d'Albret, Seigneur de Vertheuil, Seigneur de Vayres and Seigneur de Puynormand. I am the commanding force of this family and it has been brought to my attention that my youngest brother, Ghillebert, has taken upon himself a task that is not his to fulfil.' He leaned over her and lowered his voice. ‘I assure you, we know who sired your child, Lady d'Armagnac.'

His revelation stunned Cécile. She opened her mouth but no words came.

‘You are no more than a whore,' spat Arnaud. He joined his brother in towering over her. ‘But you chose the wrong family with which to dally, strumpet. We will not allow your cuckoo into our nest. Not even the bastard egg of a Prince!'

‘Arnaud!' Amanieu frowned at his brother before turning back to Cécile. ‘Lady d'Armagnac, there are some situations for which the Albret family cannot be held accountable. Your rightful place is in the royal court under the guidance of its trained physician, not hiding here in Chilham.'

A wave of sickness rolled over Cécile. Her stomach lurched and nausea struck. She swallowed it down painfully. Somewhere behind her, she vaguely registered the sound of footsteps clomping up the stairs. ‘What makes you think I carry the child of the Prince?' she protested weakly.

Arnaud smirked. ‘Our sources are very reliable and, once pointed in the right direction, it was easy enough to confirm. You forget that we have the Prince's ear.' His voice dropped to a chilling tone. ‘How fortunate I encountered Gwynedd in London. It seems our faithful servant was dismissed from this house without our knowledge. You remember Gwynedd ap Ynyr, do you not, Cécile?' He clamped a fist upon either side of the chair and leaned in close. ‘She remembers you.'

Cécile felt a dull pounding in her head, and tangible thoughts fled into oblivion. It was as though she was in a terrible dream and could not wake. Arnaud's wet lips quivered inches from her face like a salivating dog. They seemed to be moving so slowly. ‘What? Do you not find this humorous?' he was saying. ‘Is it not amusing when someone interferes in your life?'

‘Enough, Arnaud. Pour us some wine.' The younger Albret straightened and was lost to Cécile's sight as Amanieu's attention became fixed upon her condition. A thudding sound echoed from the floor above. ‘Mademoiselle, when is your babe due?'

Cécile's mind searched for an answer, trying to pluck from its confusion the correct one, but she could not.

‘Please stand.' Amanieu stepped forward, gallantly assisting her upright. His appraisal was brief and he affirmed, ‘We still have time. Sit.'

Cécile blinked stupidly at this worthy adversary to Gillet's handsome looks. His manner softened and he offered a somewhat conceited smile. ‘My wife, God rest her soul, bore me five children. You carry very high. For you to deliver, your child must fall lower.'

Somewhere inside Cécile's head were answers for these men, but she could not seize upon them. Why was Amanieu absurdly discussing the manner in which she carried? Too high? No. No, he was wrong. It was only that her unborn refused to turn. The babe could come any time now.