The Order of the Lily (58 page)

‘We will right this mess,' offered Catherine as Simon assisted two young novices to roll the unconscious Earl onto a stretcher.

‘Bless you, child. When you have finished come speak with me in the infirmary,' Sister Bernadette instructed.

Simon held the chapel door open as the nuns carried Salisbury away, accompanied by Sister Bernadette. He then turned his attention to the scattered debris that littered the floor. Catherine was attempting to right the wooden cross but appeared hampered by its weight.

‘Simon,' she began, but her husband was already beside her.

‘Not your normal relic I am guessing!' He raised his eyebrows as the unusual construction of the item became clear. ‘Catherine, close the door.'

Simon waited until she was on the opposite side of the room before lifting the ornament above his head. He smashed it against the wall.

Catherine covered her gasp as the timber splintered.
‘What are you doing? Are you mad?'

‘You'll see,' answered Simon calmly.

Three further blows were required before the wood gave way, exposing a tightly bound object. He unwrapped the cere-cloth to reveal a two-handed broadsword. Even in Simon's seasoned grip the weapon appeared extremely heavy.

‘Oh my Lord!' exclaimed Catherine. ‘I cannot tell you how often I have prayed before that cross and to think it was never a religious item.'

‘Many would disagree with you,' replied Simon as he reverently ran his hand over the hilt. ‘I had long suspected that it was hidden here in the Abbey, but my aunt always denied it.'

‘Perhaps she did not know,' Catherine suggested.

‘Perhaps.' Simon placed the weapon on top of the altar and sat in the front pew, still gazing at the sword.

‘What shall we do?' asked Catherine.

‘What Salisbury told us is true. I cannot be seen in London for I would be arrested on sight.'

‘But why?'

‘Because I have lied to the King on numerous occasions about locating and harbouring you and now, the sword.'

‘We are to keep it?' Catherine gasped.

Simon shook his head. ‘I have given this much thought and have decided that I must return the Lady to her rightful place in Dumbarton Castle.'

‘But what of Bertrand du Guesclin? Is he not expecting you to bring the sword to Paris? To the Templars?'

‘He is. I will be directly disobeying his orders, but my conscience will be best served if I follow my heart. I know this will not please you Catherine, as it means that I must be away to Scotland when you would rather greet your new nephew.'

Catherine sighed. Scotland was so far from France and Cécile.

‘I will have Roderick escort you to Calais whilst I travel to Dumbarton alone.'

‘No, Simon!' she exclaimed. ‘It will be very difficult to convince the King that we are happily married if I am not by your side.'

He turned to look at her. ‘So, you are happy then?'

‘I am in love with my husband,' Catherine shyly admitted.

‘And I with my wife.' Simon pulled her into his arms and kissed her. ‘I promise you, once we deliver the sword I will write to the court and present our case. I am sure King Edward will allow us a fair hearing.'

‘And the Lady of Scotland?'

‘She will reside in Dumbarton where Wallace intended,' he replied.

Alone in the chapel, Catherine lowered herself to the floor and lay face down on the cold flagstones. She recited the prayers of her childhood and begged protection for her sister and nephew and for the safe passage of Gillet, wherever he was. Unable to change her circumstances she felt power-less, separated once again from those she loved. Yet the joy of her marriage was surprising and beautiful and not to be overlooked. A twinge in her back forced her to sit in the pew. Placing her hand over her abdomen she saved the last blessing for the life she now knew grew within. She had longed to share the news with her husband but Catherine was certain that he would not allow her to undertake the dangerous journey to Scotland if he knew her condition. She had begun to doubt that she would ever experience a peaceful existence, a quiet life surrounded by family. Returning the sword to Dumbarton would be no easy task but she would be at her husband's side and ultimately that was what her heart desired.

Jean Petit lay on the bed and gurgled happily. Temporarily freed from his bindings, he kicked out his legs and thrust his fists into his mouth with a squeal. Cécile collected the clean swaddling from the basket and bent over him. ‘The priest was right to name you “a sounder.” You make a royal noise when you are hungry!' The smile she gave her son was poignant. ‘Today is going to be difficult for your maman, so you must promise to be good.' The door to her chamber opened and the indomitable trio of the Mesdames and Margot clamoured in, grinning from ear to ear.

‘Good morning,' they echoed as one.

Cécile eyed the three ladies suspiciously. Distracted from her task, she did not see her son's face shrivel in concentration. A spray arched into the air and splashed against her bodice.

‘Sacré bleu, Jean Petit! Look what you have done! Maman had donned her best for church.'

Covert glances flew between the women as Cécile sat and ill-temperedly dabbed at her sodden gown. It was hardly a good beginning.

‘No matter, dear,' said Rosetta brightly. ‘We plan to attend a later Mass today.'

‘We have a surprise for you,' clucked Violetta as Minette and Veronique appeared at the door, bearing a large tub and two heavy buckets.

‘What is this?' questioned Cécile, half-heartedly as she bound her son's ill-timed equipment in swaddling.

‘We have decided to treat you, my dear,' said Violetta, clapping her hands together in delight. ‘You are the great-granddaughter of King Edward I and today we are going to make you a princess in your own right.'

‘It is high time that you started behaving as one of your rank,' admonished Rosetta. ‘Margot will mind the babe. Come, we have work to do.'

Cécile began to protest but she was ‘whished' to silence. Violetta nodded with conspiracy to her sister and departed, only to reappear moments later buried beneath a mass of deep crimson-burgundy velvet, so dark in the folds, it shone almost black. Cécile caught her breath. It was the most beautiful gown she had ever seen.

‘Today you are to be Lady Holland, great-granddaughter of a king!' said Margot, nursing Jean Petit.

‘After your bath, you will don this gown and take your walk by the river. We want to see the colour back in your cheeks, dear.'

‘Am I not to break my fast?' asked Cécile, her hand poised over the lustrous material.

‘When you return,' chided Dame Rosetta softly. ‘Oh child, we just want to see you smile again. Our renovations are finished, except for this room, and since we are to move you to a fresh chamber, we decided to make it a special day. Please indulge us, dear.'

A thrill of pleasure reawakened in Cécile as her fingers brushed the velvet. ‘You should not have spent your money on me.'

‘Pfft!' Violetta waved aside the notion. ‘We had a little left over, and it is ours to bestow where we wish. Now come, humour two silly old ladies – at least for today.'

An hour later, the maids had bathed Cécile and liberally splashed her with rose-water. Her hair was cleverly woven, a single tress twined and pinned on each side with gilly-flowers, the remainder hanging loose to her waist in shining waves. She stood in an under-gown of golden silk as Minette and Veronique carefully lifted the velvet over her head and settled it into place.

‘Rumour has it,' chatted Veronique, ‘that Joan of Kent herself has crafted this latest daring court fashion.' She pulled the deeply scooped neckline to sit properly. It was edged in a band of sumptuous gold embroidery and dipped sensually between Cécile's breasts. The hem and generous sleeves, the points of which almost touched the ground, were similarly adorned with gold thread.

Dame Rosetta fastened a gem-studded platelet belt around Cécile's hips but frowned at the young woman's necklace. ‘I wish I had something more suitable to give you, my dear.'

Cécile's hand flew to her silver medal of Saint Gilles. ‘No! I … like … this … thank you, Dame Rosetta.'

‘Milady has the most magnificent rope of moonstones,' offered Minette. ‘They would look superb.'

‘
No
.' But before Cécile could protest further, the women had violated her jewel cask and swathed her neck with the shimmering gems.

Veronique held up a large sheet of polished metal. They all gasped at the transformation.

‘You look beautiful, Cécile,' breathed Margot, her eyes mist-ing. ‘As delicate as a rose.'

‘One that desperately needs to bloom.' puffed Rosetta. ‘You are wafer thin!'

Violetta frowned at her sister. ‘Pay no heed, child. Today you are a princess. Go for your walk now.'

Cécile was shooed to the door by all the women. Dame Violetta squealed one last objection and thrust a pair of kid gloves at her. Watching their excited faces, Cécile felt the ever-present tears rising. ‘Thank you,' she choked. ‘You have been such good friends.'

‘Go,' they howled in unison.

‘There is a family of ducks that live upon the lake and they are a treat to watch,' called Veronique but Violetta had the last word.

‘Stick to the high bank, dear, near the elm tree. You do not want to muddy your pretty slippers.'

Outside, Cécile paused to inhale a deep breath of the fragrant spring air. She meandered down the cobbled path towards the lake and when she reached the high bank, paused to watch the sun sparkle on the ripples. The ducks floated over the water. She leaned against the tall elm, glad for this short time alone. A deep yearning dragged at her soul. Today was the day she must let go forever. But instead of feeling reborn, as she had promised herself for weeks now, she felt as though she were dying. It was the twenty-eighth day of March. Somewhere today, Gillet de Bellegarde was getting married.

Cécile stared up into the sky and then did something she had not done for a long, long time. Softly, she began to sing. It was a desolate, haunting lament, poignant and sad and it suited her well. After all, she would never love another and, from this day forward, Gillet was dead to her. She closed her eyes and allowed her heart to bleed freely one last time.

‘Rose, rose, rose, red.

Shall I ever see thee wed?

I marry, that I shall, sir,

When I am dead.

Rose, rose, rose, red.

Who will wed thee if thou art dead?

My true love is dead this one day,

He shall I wed.

Rose, rose, rose, red.

Where will be thy marriage bed?

In a cold grave, with my true love,

When I am dead.

Rose, rose, rose, red.

How shalt we clothe thee, when thou art dead?

Clothe in silk and clay, and ashes,

When I am wed.

Rose, rose, rose, red.'