The Order of the Lily (9 page)

Unable to believe her ears, Cécile had barely opened her mouth to protest when a blade slashed the laces of her gown. Her clothing was dragged from her body in seconds and there was a collective startled murmur when her condition was revealed. They all froze. With a sob, Cécile fell to her knees, shaking. She picked up her chemise and clutched it to her breast. Then all hell broke loose.

‘She is with child!' screeched the bailiff. ‘Who is responsible?'

‘Good Lord!' Arnaud shot out of his chair and grabbed Cécile's arm. He shook her hard. ‘Is this why Ghillebert sent you here? Are you carrying his seed?'

The priest lurched forward to intervene. ‘My daughter, this makes it a matter for the church. Was this adultery? We will have the perpetrator's name.'

‘Who is the father?' roared Lord Felton.

‘I knew it, you little strumpet!' screamed Arnaud. ‘You are an Armagnac spy!'

Cécile sank to her haunches with a cry and clapped her hands over her ears, rocking. They were coming at her from all sides.

‘You must confess your sins, child.'

‘Who is the father?'

She squeezed her eyes shut. Visions rose before her of the one man who had promised her protection, and she began to pray in earnest. ‘Help me, Gillet. Please help me.'

‘Have you committed adultery?'

‘Who is the father?'

‘Gillet!' screamed Cécile.

The room fell silent. Lord Felton sank into his chair, and stared at Arnaud.

‘If my brother is responsible, then this is a family matter,' growled Arnaud. ‘Father John, since Ghillebert is unwed, this is clearly not adultery. Stupidity maybe. I thank you for your time this morning.' Turning his back in dismissal, he towered over Lord Felton. ‘This changes nothing, except that now we know we chastise an interfering whore!'

The bailiff looked uncertain, and strummed his bottom lip. ‘Are you sure you wish to proceed? Your brother will not like it.'

‘Leave my brother to me,' stormed Arnaud.
‘God damn it.
Four barrels of wine!'

‘Very well.'

Father John stepped forward hesitantly. ‘What of her child?'

Arnaud sneered, his teeth bared like a wolf about to spring. ‘Shall we not leave that to God's providence?'

For the rest of her life Cécile would remember the ride through Chilham. She had been given back her chemise, and with it, a small measure of courage returned. Arnaud and Lord Felton sat waiting, the latter on his diminutive pony.

The guard tying Cécile's hands shot him a look of disgust and growled, ‘The only reason 'e likes draggin' women 'round on a mule is 'cause it makes ‘em shorter than 'im!'

A crowd gathered behind the odd procession, their growing interest turning to enthusiasm, slanderous comments vocalised with increasing zeal as they tagged along behind. A mangy dog snapped at the beast's legs, encouraged by a gaggle of laughing children. Something hit Cécile's shoulder and mud slid down her breast. The degradation was unbearable but from the mists of her mind sprung a vision of her father, Comte Jean d'Armagnac.

‘Papa, forgive me for bringing more shame upon you,' she whispered.

Her eyes welled and she squeezed them tightly shut to stop the tears. From somewhere deep inside a hammer struck upon an anvil of ironwill. She had done nothing wrong. Her blood was noble. She was raised Armagnac and Armagnacs had ever stood by their beliefs. All she was guilty of was relieving another woman's suffering. Whatever was to come, she would not cower.

They turned from the main street and descended a slop-ing bank where two soldiers were manœuvring a wheeled, wooden platform to the lake's edge. From the centre of the construction rose a long post with a pivoting crossbeam. Ropes hung from either end, the shorter rope dangling a seat. A cucking chair!

‘No,' gasped Cécile. Her heart crawled up her chest to cringe in her throat and her face paled to ashen grey. She had yet to make her peace with water.

Arnaud swivelled in his saddle and grinned pompously, but his captive's gaze was fastened upon the dark ripples of the lake. A lone duck, resentful of the noisy intrusion to its haven, honked loudly and flapped into the sky.

The soldiers pulled the trembling woman from the mule to the contraption and began to tie her into the chair. Cécile was frozen with fear. The crowd buzzed with anticipation and Lord Felton judged the moment ripe to make his speech. The men murmured with approval when he mentioned the scold's bridle and as he described Cécile's condition there were fierce glances of disgust from the women. Lord Felton's portrayal of a wanton was so effective that one woman broke from the crowd to spit in Cécile's face.

The bailiff, delighted with the attention, suddenly felt the need to relieve himself. He glanced at the bordering shrub-bery. ‘Lord, I need to piss,' he chuckled to Arnaud. ‘Too much blasted wine!' He headed for the bushes, calling over his shoulder, ‘Proceed.'

The guard tying the rope around Cécile's waist scowled as Lord Felton disappeared behind the hedge. He looked down at his shivering prisoner and whispered. ‘Courage, lass. Never 'eld much with this kind o' treatment, meself.' He glanced to where Arnaud stood, arms folded, glowing with satisfaction. ‘Or 'im, just quietly. Village is always disrupted when 'e comes to stay. Sell 'is own mother t' the Devil, if it suited 'is purpose. Four barrels o' wine.' He spat into the dirt, his hand briefly resting on Cécile's arm. ‘Ye just remember to take a deep breath when ye feel y'self goin' down. 'Tis not meant to kill ye but ten dunks all at once is more 'an I've ever heard afore.'

The pond shimmered silver with shadows of black, dark and threatening, lying beneath the surface. Cécile nodded but already she was finding it difficult to breathe. Her heart was thumping as the platform was wheeled to the water's edge and the chair raised.

Memories of the Seine rushed back, intensifying Cécile's fear one hundredfold. The chair dropped and she splashed into the freezing water. She held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut tight, and began to count. Her lungs contracted and though she was desperate to inhale, she concentrated on her numbers until she felt herself rising. As she broke free of the surface she gasped frantically for air. Her eyes stung and she began to shiver uncontrollably. Then she felt her stomach heave and the chair plummeted once more to the sound of cheering. This time she glimpsed the blackness beneath, and strange slivers of light pierced her eyes. Her skin seared her flesh and she wondered at the absurdity of glacial cold having the power to burn.

By the fifth dousing her hair was unwound and tangled with pond weed. Her limbs were numb and non-existent. She rose for the sixth time, chilled by the wind, her chest heaving, and the crowd heard her pitiful sob.

‘God help me!' It was obvious to all that Cécile would not catch her breath before the chair fell again. The crowd gasped as she disappeared into the murky depths. Even the women who had only earlier brandished fists, now held their hands over their mouths whilst counting. Some crossed themselves for fear of the worst. None saw her as an evil wanton now, only a wretched woman near to drowning. There, but for the grace of their husbands, went any one of them.

‘Pull her up!' came a cry from the back. ‘She's paid her due!'

Another chimed in and the fickle crowd began to chant. ‘Pull her up! Pull her up!'

No one heard the pounding of horse's hooves upon the ridge. The chair rose into the air but Cécile was slouched forward, smothered in her hair and not moving. Their chants ignored, the subdued crowd fell silent as it watched the contraption lower for a seventh time.

‘Out of my way!'

The crowd fell back at the arrival of eight more soldiers, their leader determined to make his way to the cucking platform. ‘Haul up that chair!
Now
.' Murmurs rippled through the gathering as the young man, dressed in black, drew his sword. Lord Felton rushed from the bushes, pulling up his hose. ‘Oh Lord,' he gasped. He watched as Arnaud's sword clashed against the intruder's blade, then darting a furtive look at the crowd, crept back into the verge to shoo the half-naked woman he'd been entertaining.

The villagers began to shout as the two men fought, this new entertainment more to their liking. The cucking chair was raised to ground level and one of the newly arrived soldiers pulled out his dagger and cut the young woman's bonds.

Cécile fell into his arms, unconscious or worse.

Both men were panting hard by the time Arnaud found himself staring down the length of the blade, the tip threatening to pierce his throat. He dropped his sword and held up his hands.

‘It would seem, brother, that your swordplay has greatly improved. Welcome home, Ghillebert.'

With the help of a kitchen servant girl called Minette, Veronique had the wooden tub removed as Cécile slid her arms into the cosy warmth of a woollen robe. She sat before the hastily lit fire in her chamber and Veronique began to briskly dry her hair and comb out the tangles.

‘How's Margot?' asked Cécile.

‘Better than you, milady.' Veronique twisted a hank to squeeze out more water but a sob escaped her lips and she fell to her knees, pleading. ‘I swear, milady, I didn't know what milord was about. He said he would have me horsewhipped if I said one word on Madame's condition, and I was scared he would do it. He said he only wanted to talk with you. If I had known what was in his evil mind …'

Cécile laid her hand upon Veronique. ‘Why did you not come back for me yesterday?'

‘I could not find your men! Then Monsieur caught me. Honest, milady.' Her eyes filled with tears. ‘And now his lordship is down there interrogating all the servants. I know my turn is coming. I swear I did not mean to put you in harm's way.'

‘Arnaud is questioning the servants?'

‘No. No one has seen hide nor hair of Seigneur Arnaud. I mean the other lord – his brother, the man who saved you. He arrived here this very morning, after you were taken away. Symond and I had just discovered your soldiers locked into the cellar.' She rolled her eyes. ‘Fine state of affairs, I can tell you! They rode from here like the Devil was after them when we told what had happened. Then his Lordship came back in a temper fit to burst, and carrying you, limp in his arms. Oh, Lady d'Armagnac,' she wailed. ‘I thought you were dead!'

Cécile felt the blood draining from her face. ‘The man who saved me was Arnaud's brother? Which one?'

‘Why, Monsieur Ghillebert, of course.'

‘Gillet is here?' exclaimed Cécile, feeling her heart skip several beats.

‘Oui, Mademoiselle, oui. He ordered your bath, and said he will be up to see you shortly.'

‘Then for God's sake hurry, Veronique. Attend me, quickly!'