The Order of the Lily (55 page)

February rolled to a close and the Mesdames received their inheritance. Frenzied work began on the manor's renovations. Safely enclosed within her suite, Cécile ignored the bang-ing of hammers and the rasping of files coming from both above and below. She ignored the odour of paint permeating beneath her door. She sat in her chair and rocked her son from dawn's rays until twilight's shadows. It had been one month since she left Gillet.

In the second week of March, Dame Rosetta insisted a physician examine Cécile.

‘Your womb has ceased to bleed,' he informed her upon completion.

Cécile stared from the casement at the newly appointed gardeners digging the rose plots. Winter had left prematurely and everyone whispered that it heralded a very long and hot summer.

‘Are you listening, Madame?' The physician scowled at his despondent patient. He had heard of such cases, where after childbirth the mother could not recover her spirit. ‘Your humours are out of balance, but time will correct this. You should resume your marital duties as soon as possible, Madame. It will help.'

Cécile glanced up with a weak smile. ‘Yes, I understand.'

The chamber door opened and Monique, the wet-nurse, laid Jean Petit on Cécile's bed. She quickly stripped his gown and swaddling bands and stepped back to allow the physician to examine the child.

‘Your son is doing well,' approved the physician with satisfaction. Jean Petit was re-dressed and placed into Cécile's anxiously waiting arms. She snuggled him possessively, kissing his brow as he squirmed beneath his blankets, ill-tempered at being disturbed.

‘He is gaining sufficient weight and your wet-nurse tells me that he settles better,' said the physician. His officious tone softened as he placed his hand on Cécile's shoulder. ‘You have a hale and hearty son, Madame. You have also regained your own health. From what I was told, it could have been much worse. Thank God for His mercy. You and your husband at least have an heir.' He packed his instruments and left.

Cécile sat in her chair by the window, nursing her son, and stared blankly at the rose bushes. ‘I do thank God for you but you cannot know the cost.' Jean Petit squirmed, then stiffened his legs and let loose a vicious wail.

On the sixteenth day of March the Mesdames, Margot and Cécile, along with their maids, climbed aboard the manor's cart bound for the church. With the return of Cécile's health, Madame Rosetta insisted on having Jean Petit christened. They had already risked the child's soul for too long, she'd said.

Cécile wore a new wool gown of soft blue sewn by Margot and embroidered by Dame Violetta. Both ladies had clucked with despair over the smallness of Cécile's waistline, though Rosetta's broths had restored fullness to her gaunt cheeks.

Inside the church was stifling. Parishioners squeezed shoulder to shoulder, the suffocating odours and cloying perfumes aggravating the baby. Cécile attracted many frowns as she struggled to settle her fractious son during the sermon. At the appropriate time the priest nodded and she made her way to the baptismal font. Prayers were said and then Jean Petit was held over the blessed waters. He screamed loudly, his broken wail echoing down the aisle as the sign of the cross was pressed to his forehead.

‘What name do you bestow upon this infant?'

Cécile faltered for a moment before whispering, ‘Jean de Calais.'

The priest nodded and Jean Petit howled again, his legs thrusting out rigid, his little fists clenched. The priest whispered briefly with Cécile and she nodded. The he proclaimed to the congregation, ‘There are many Jeans of Calais,' he said. ‘And this child yearns to be heard above all others.' He dipped his fingers into the font and announced, ‘I anoint thee Jean
Sounder
of Calais, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.' The water was poured over Jean's brow and his blood-curdling screech carried to the four corners of the church.

‘Can't wash the Devil from that one!'

The congregation stood for hymn-singing and Jean Petit had worthy accompaniment as Cécile returned to her seat. By the time the song concluded his cries had been reduced to sleepy sobs. Cécile sighed thankfully. The Mass was drawing to a close and the priest climbed his pulpit to make his weekly announcements. His words made Cécile's blood drain to her toes. ‘This week we have a calling of the banns. I hereby publish the banns of marriage between …'

Jean Petit's shriek hurtled to the rafters and all eyes turned to Cécile.

‘I am so sorry,' she mumbled. Not caring how many toes she stood upon, she fled her pew. The priest scowled, his ‘harrumph' clearly expressing the view of many as Cécile made her timely escape.

Once outside, she walked around the side of the church and sat upon a wooden bench. ‘Hush, my darling. I'm so sorry Mama pinched you! I simply could not sit there and listen as they read the banns.' She held the child before her and whispered, ‘Do you understand? I know they must be read but please don't ask me to listen.' She settled Jean into the crook of her arm. ‘The law requires the reading of marriage banns for three consecutive weeks and, if not here, Jean Sounder of Calais, then somewhere, today, a priest will be calling forth the name of Ghillebert d'Albret.' Cécile tenderly cradled her son against her breast and drew her cloak around him. His head turned and his mouth searched frantically. ‘Non, I am sorry, minikin. In this, your mother has failed you.' Ignoring her protest, he began to suckle the cloth at her breast. ‘Oh!' Fascinated, Cécile watched as her son nuzzled the wet patch of material with soft mewling noises. ‘Well,' she sighed, ‘if that makes you content, I see no harm.' She sat, crooning softly as Jean's eyes grew heavy. As she stroked his fine hair, long enough now to twist into curls, she felt a deep warmth stirring within her breast and her sorrow rose up to choke her. ‘Forgive me, beloved, for denying you a most wonderful father in Gillet. He was not yours to have.'

The congregation began to spill from the church like ants stirred from a nest. Cécile rearranged her sleeping babe and covered her drool-wet bodice with her cloak, then went in search of Margot and the Mesdames. Their despondent expressions at her approach puzzled her.

‘Cécile, there you are. Monique's husband has just informed us that he has found work in Amiens and she need no longer hire herself out as a wet-nurse.'

‘Oh! I suppose that is good news for them,' replied Cécile.

‘Yes, but they leave at once,' retorted Madame Rosetta. ‘We have no way to feed Jean Petit! And where, pray tell, does one find a wet-nurse on a Sunday?'

‘Oh, dear,' countered Violetta, glancing at the sleeping form in Cécile's arms. ‘How long before he is hungry, child?' The ladies stared at one another as the implication struck home. Jean was
always
hungry!

Two hours later Cécile was walking the floor of her chamber, her son shrilling incessantly as she tried to calm him. Below, in the kitchen, the Mesdames, Minette and Margot worked furiously to procure the much needed equipment. Upon returning home, Veronique and Claude, the stable hand, had been swiftly dispatched, the first to scour the village for an available wet-nurse, and the latter to find a goat. These would be no easy tasks, for the church prohibited business transactions on a holy day. But Claude had found a farmer who, for the turn of a coin, was willing to risk God's wrath. The reason soon became apparent, the goat was almost dry.

‘Plaguey farmer! May his fruit wither and die on the trees!' spat Madame Rosetta, delivering to the kitchen what little had been acquired from the despicable creature. A disagreement erupted as to whether the milk should be boiled, lest it be contaminated by some foul contagion. No horn could be found, and the animal looked suitably repentant when all eyes turned to its head. Violetta whooped for joy when, searching through the pantry, she found a long forgotten chevrette, a small terracotta feeding bottle with a lengthy, tubular neck.

‘We'll have to find a new nipple though,' said Violetta sadly, as she held up the withered piece of kid leather. Jean's screams sounded from above. Eyes glanced upwards then back to the goat's udder and its redundant teats.

‘Tell Claude to sharpen the knives. We dine on goat tonight,' announced Rosetta.