The Order of the Lily (6 page)

‘Mademoiselle d'Armagnac?' The door rattled and Veronique's voice sounded thickly from the other side. Cécile jumped up as the door was unlocked and the maid's pale face appeared in the gap. ‘Veronique, how is she? How is Margot? Oh, my Lord! Forgive me. This is all my fault.'

‘Hush. Calm yourself, Mademoiselle.' Veronique pressed her finger to her lips and lowered her voice. ‘The Madame progresses well and her injuries are blessedly minor, considering the fall she took. But that devil of a husband will not leave her side. She is to have no peace at all. Not even in her delivery hour.' Veronique spat in disgust. ‘He is a beast in human skin! For every month Madame did not conceive, he broke her little finger as penance for her disobedience.'

‘Oh, my Lord!'

Veronique nodded. ‘Oui, always the same finger so that it would not heal. It was to be a constant reminder.' The maid collapsed onto a nearby stool and crossed herself. ‘Holy Mary, mother of God, protect us for what is to come.' She peeped up at Cécile. ‘Madame has sent me to warn you. She fears the worst and wishes for you to be safe.'

‘The worst?' bellowed Cécile. ‘What could be worse than this?'

Veronique grabbed Cécile's sleeve, her voice rasping. ‘Lady d'Albret has not felt the babe move for days now. There may be no question of the child surviving this night. Not if it is already … please, Mademoiselle d'Armagnac, his first wife and son already lay in their graves.' The maid quickly crossed herself. ‘His fury would know no bounds. You must be gone. The Madame could deliver any hour and she begs you to leave for the safety of your own child.'

Panic seeped into Cécile's breast and she grabbed Veronique's hands. ‘Then you must find Alfred, the captain of my soldiers. Tell him to ready the men and saddle Ruby and Inferno. Then come back and get me. I shall not leave without first having written a note to Margot.'

‘Oui, Mademoiselle.'

Veronique flew down the stairs with the speed of a racing gazelle. Cécile locked her door from the inside and leaned against it, her skin crawling as a wild howl of pain, louder than all the others put together, engulfed the manor house.

Then there was silence.

The turret room of Calais Castle was inordinately opulent. The carved coffer and canopied bed, with its dark crimson curtains, bespoke royalty.

Catherine had not intended to sleep, so had lain upon the richly embroidered coverlet dressed in Cecile's travelling cloak. However, fatigue had eventually conquered fear until the call of a nearby sentry woke her. Now she lay terrified, expecting the Prince to arrive at any moment to claim her. Perhaps this was the manner in which the condemned spent their last hours as they awaited the executioner, she pondered, her fingers tightening around her rosary.

After disembarking back in France Catherine watched helplessly as Gillet was roughly tossed onto a litter and carried away. She had been escorted through the large gate of Calais Castle by two soldiers, the full weight of her rash decision settling upon her like a heavy shroud. How was she to going to convince anyone that she was Cécile? How long would she have to endure the attentions of the Prince? It had been folly and madness to take her sister's place but, Catherine knew if she were to do it over, she would make the same choice.

She expected her arrival to be immediately announced to the Prince, but was instead paraded through the great hall and led towards the turret staircase. She lowered her eyes from the many stares and ignored the hushed whispers. Catherine mounted the steps and found herself directed to the royal heir's chamber. She tried in vain to steady her breathing as the guards outside the heavy wooden door stepped aside, the sound of the heavy bolt dismissing any hope of a possible escape.

Catherine sank down upon the bed. She had to think quickly. She threw back the cover and removed the smallest bolster, then unwound the cloak that had so far successfully hidden the shape of her body. She lifted her skirt and the seams of her chemise protested as she forced the pillow under. The tight fit kept it secure and by arranging the surcote and cloak to the front, her pregnancy appeared reasonably convincing.

She laid back, closed her eyes and sought to conjure an image of her rescuer, Simon, but the strawberry-blonde hair of her guardian deepened into the russet tones of England's heir. She had been told of his wicked temper and feared it would not be long before she would witness it for herself.

Heavy footfalls on the landing shook Catherine from her reverie. She sat up quickly and slid her stockinged feet into her boots as the door flew open.

William Montagu, Earl of Salisbury, and right hand to the Prince of Wales, stepped into the room. ‘We meet at last, Lady d'Armagnac. I have been looking forward to this moment for some time. I have been directed to escort you to the Prince.'

At the sight of the man she first met at Denny Abbey, Catherine fought off the terror that threatened to choke her.

Salisbury offered his arm and smiled with feigned gallantry. His gaze travelled over her and settled on the protrusion of her forthcoming child.

Catherine grasped his wrist. She immediately regretted the action as he winced in pain. She had forgotten the injury he had sustained under Simon's blade.

‘Pay no heed, my Lady, it is naught but a scratch inflicted by a flea-bitten dog,' he explained as he slid her grip to his fingers. ‘It would be beneficial, I believe, for both you and I to be … friends.'

Catherine stiffened at the suggestion but Salisbury did not appear to notice as he directed her towards the stairs.

‘As you would well know, a royal court is an intriguing place and England's is no different. There are those who have the ear of the prince and those who wish they had. Many will pay homage, Lady d'Armagnac, in the belief that you hold sway over your lover.'

Catherine paused on the landing. The noise of the revelry below heightened her growing distress and she grasped the rail to steady herself.

‘You do not appear as enthusiastic as I was led to believe.' Salisbury pulled her towards him. ‘Take some advice, for what it's worth,' he rasped. ‘You have more than one enemy within these walls and will need every ally you can get, including those for whom you may have little liking.'

His face was inches from hers, his weight pushing her back against the wall causing the pillow beneath her chemise to shift sideways. Salisbury's malicious sneer suddenly changed to one of surprise. ‘What is this? Do I detect a deception?' He drew his dagger and placed the blade across Catherine's throat as he smiled. ‘What nasty little plan have I uncovered, Lady d'Armagnac?'

He began to explore the folds beneath her surcote, his nails scratching her calf as Catherine kicked out.

‘No!'

Salisbury struggled against her, the blade of his dagger slicing into her shoulder. Catherine screamed, punching at him with her fists as he forced her legs apart. She swiftly raised her knee and thrust all her weight into his groin. Salisbury doubled over. A stream of obscenities flew from his lips as Catherine lifted her skirt and fled toward the stairs. Her escape was clumsy and hampered by the length of her gown. She stumbled. Salisbury, not far behind her, lunged, and tripping them both, they tumbled down the steps.

In the musty cell of the South Tower, Gillet kneeled before the Prince. The wound in his chest, now cleaned and stitched by the physician, Tariq, began to throb with hellfire. His memories of the last few hours were disjointed and vague, but his presence of mind was enough to know where he was now, and in whose company. The hairs on his nape began to prickle as he bowed his head and he almost fancied he could hear the Prince's sword being drawn from its scabbard.

Edward of Woodstock strode to the solid oak door and peered out the grille. ‘Leave us.'

The guard's reply was muffled but the sound of his retreating footsteps pounded inside Gillet's head like a death knell.

‘How bad are your injuries?'

‘Milord?' Gillet glanced up.

Edward stood glowering over him. ‘I asked how bad are your injuries?'

‘I will live, by God's grace … and by yours, Sire.'

‘Indeed.'

Gillet lowered his gaze respectfully and watched the boots pace beyond his vision. A trickle of sweat rolled down his cheek from his beaded brow. Tariq had given him a tisane of peppered sorrel but his temperature was still rising at an alarming rate. It might not matter. One word from Edward now and it could all be over.

‘Get off your knees!'

‘Milord?'

Edward kicked at the dirty hay. ‘I give you leave to sit among the fleas. You look as though you are about to expire and I am not ready to have you do that … yet.'

Gillet collapsed onto his haunches and leaned against the wall, his movements clumsy for his ankles were fettered by leg irons. He swung his manacled hands to drape loosely over his legs and, levelling his gaze, watched with surprise as Edward lowered himself against the opposite wall so they were face-to-face.

The Prince brushed back his reddish-gold crop of hair from his brow and exhaled. The amber eyes were pensive and gloomy. ‘There was a time when you and I were friends. What happened?'

Gillet tilted his head back and stared at the rotted beams, mottled with damp and mildew. ‘I think you know the answer to that.' The apple in his throat bobbed. ‘Every year I light a candle for my cousin, Jean d'Albret.'

‘I never meant for him to die.'

Gillet's smile was bitter. ‘You forgot to tell that to your butcher.'

‘His enthusiasm was punished.'

‘A comfort to Jean as his hide was torn from his flesh, strip by strip.'

‘Your cousin played a dangerous game, Gillet. And he was caught.'

Beneath his shirt, Gillet's skin crawled. If he must die, pray God let it be quick. Even the stoutest of courage would fail beneath such torture.

‘I could charge you with treason, the same as your cousin.'

The Prince's words rippled down Gillet's spine and he forced the shudder into a shrug. He knew Edward well enough to know his best course was not to show fear. ‘Brandishing your power? You know that never scared me.'

Edward laughed. ‘It was what I liked about you! You never yielded.'

Gillet blinked down into his open hands. His palms were blistered raw from wielding his sword half the night. ‘Not quite. There were times when it was prudent for me to step back.'

‘I always did admire your taste in women.'

Gillet's eyes flared and snapped to Edward. ‘You never resorted to trickery and deceit before! You knew a daughter of Armagnac would never willingly fall into your bed.'

‘I watched her leave your room at the inn in Paris.' The Prince's lips curved upward with his musing. ‘Imagine my surprise when, between my sheets, I found her as innocent as a newborn lamb. That is what you cannot forgive.'

Gillet's teeth flashed in the dim haze of the lit wall sconce. ‘Armagnac will not forgive you either.'

‘Armagnac is a fool!' retorted Edward angrily. ‘Do not forget Cécile's true blood carries the royal line of Plantagenet!'