The Lily and the Lion (30 page)

‘What do you mean by condition?'

‘He wants you alive,' he turned away to look out the window, ‘but he is not concerned what they do prior to handing you over.'

‘What they would do?'

He looked back at me, his face grave. ‘He did not stipulate that molestation was forbidden.'

My heart began to pound. ‘Dear Lord, give me strength.'

‘Roderick has sent word to Broughton and they are expecting both him and me and two unnamed wards.'

‘Yes, you were right not to ask on my behalf. For, as yet, I have no proof that I am connected to the family.' I was completely unsure of the reception I would encounter once I started making certain claims. ‘I did not realise you were acquainted with Sir Thomas and Lady Joan.'

‘Thomas Holland and his wife are still at court in London – either that or accompanying the Prince to Calais. I did have occasion to speak with him some years back, but it is the Lady Matilda, his maiden sister, who is currently in residence. It is she who knows me.' He hurried on as though unwilling to discuss this new revelation. ‘In the morning Mary and her mother will disguise both you and Anaïs and you will be placed in the rear of a covered wagon. You shall be unrecognisable. Should we be approached, they will see nothing more than a cart delivering lepers to a lazar house.'

I smiled for it was an ingenious plan. ‘How do you intend to make Anaïs co-operate?'

‘Fortunately, I have a quantity of mandrake and, when watered down and placed in ale, it can make for one of the most potent sleeping draughts I know.' I felt uneasy. This was a poor thing to do to anyone, even Anaïs, and he must have sensed my distress. ‘Catherine, there is no other way. We cannot risk discovery. Though both Roderick and I are handy swordsmen, I do not wish to take on the hoards, excited at the hint of gold and the chance to steal a woman's maidenhood.' I nodded for, indeed, I could see no alternative. ‘I will send Mary to pack your belongings. Finish your letter to Cécile and I will send it on the morrow. I must get word to Gillet of our plans.'

I need not tell you, my dearest, that I am more than a little frightened. Salisbury is a man of true evil, for how could he turn the hounds upon his own daughter? I wonder also about my looming introduction to Broughton Manor. My confidence wavers somewhat, bearing in mind that I intend to suggest that I am one of the household's two hidden daughters, the child of a blaggard so wicked that he could abuse his own flesh and blood! At least I know in my heart that I have Simon's support, for he seems to despise Salisbury as much as you and I. Considering our ancestry, his friendship is somewhat of a surprise.

My dearest, pray for me, as I do for you. With God's help, soon you will receive word that we have reached the safety of Broughton.

Your devoted sister, Catherine

Written from the Shalford Inn , 30 August, Feast of Saints Felix and Adauctus, 34 Edward III.

As she lay in his arms, blood streaming down her face, Simon had sworn a hideous blasphemy. How could God, any God, allow such a thing to happen? He wanted to stay and tend her but each time he looked upon her he was forced to acknowledge his own feelings.

But how could this be? He had nothing left to give. Everything he had, everything that had once been, was gone, buried under the sands of a distant land. Yet she had opened her heart to him and revealed the pain held tightly inside. Was he prepared to do the same?

Sitting heavily upon the bench, he rested his head upon his arms and closed his eyes. Catherine's image dissolved before him as the mist of time shifted to become a dry, arid desert. A young, beautiful woman with bronze skin and almond eyes beckoned him, her wide smile inviting. Amina! She wrapped the long veil of gold thread over her dark hair and called out. A small child darted between her skirts and she laughed. The little boy's face lit up and he ran with his arms outstretched. ‘Papa! Papa!'

Simon's eyes flew open, his brow beaded with sweat. He swallowed several times, the memory causing a painful constriction in his chest. Rising to his feet, he filled his goblet and drank it quickly, swiping his sleeve across his mouth. Having once failed to protect those he truly loved, he must not let it happen again. He had no wish to fall into the fires of Hell for a second, slow roasting.

To my righteous and honourable sister, Catherine Pembroke, be this letter delivered.

31 August

We have finally arrived in Arras! The town is easily recognisable by the cluster of bright red-roofed buildings and the imposing belfry of the town hall. The defensive wall snakes around the village in an unusual figure of eight, the later addition to the structure enclosing the Abbey that lies to the west. True to Armand's word, the countryside is flourishing, no sign of the recent war visible as we rode alongside lush pastures of green.

We found accommodation at L'Hostel de Ville only to learn that a tournament is to be held to celebrate the forthcoming release of our King, Jean le Bon. I begged Gillet and Armand to allow us to remain in the village so we could attend, pleading that it would give Madame Duvall some time alone with her sister before we joined them. Both men readily agreed.

By sheer luck my room overlooks the field where the event will take place. Already, colourful tents are springing up like late summer blooms and the town's carpenters labour to make raised seating for the spectators. Our soldiers happily pitched their own tents on the tourney ground, glad to re-acquaint themselves with old comrades as more arrive each day.

The inn itself is comfortable and the pretty garden alive with colour, a final burst to herald the balmy weather. The cloying perfume from the rose arbors combine with the earthy scent of the freshly tilled flowerbeds, the bright yellow and delicate pink petalled heads following the sun with longing. But most spectacular, this floral courtyard boasts one of the largest high-walled fish ponds that I have ever seen.

This morning Armand accompanied Madame Duvall to her sister's residence in the outer reaches, beyond the walls. She wept with joy knowing she would soon be reunited with her sister. I can only hope that elation will be ours one day. She hugged me warmly but we shall see her soon.

Gillet is on his usual rounds to find his contacts and learn the current political situation. I sit in this glorious garden, the twittering of the birds competing with the boisterous shouts from the tourney field beyond, the seclusion of my chamber seeming far too lonely. The warmth of both the sun and the town's residents radiates, and I realise that summer is almost over. So too, is my journey to Arras.

Armand and I were enjoying our noon meal, the havoc of the last arrivals for the tourney providing much entertainment when Gillet joined us, he having returned from a meeting with one of his contacts.

‘I have good news,' he announced when a tall, blonde-haired man in a dusty surcote threw down his belongings near our table and bellowed in amazement.

‘Albret? Christ's nails! I wondered what foul beast had swallowed you.'

His yell took Gillet by surprise and his spoon went hurtling to the floor. With a ripe curse he dived under the table to retrieve it as Armand scrambled from his seat.

‘Gabriel!' The two men exchanged riotous back slaps then chatted for a few moments before Armand led him over. Gillet resurfaced and stood in greeting. The men grasped one another's forearms – two bears of equal height and strength and looking as though they were about to tussle over a hive.

‘Gillet de Bellegarde,' announced Armand, ‘the man about whom I just told you. This is Gabriel de Beaumont de l'Oise, a friend from my cousin's company.'

The newcomer knight grinned. ‘Bellegarde? A short distance from Orleans, oui? I have heard of it.'

Gillet nodded warily.

‘And this is my cousin, on my mother's side, Cécile. You remember my having told you about her.'

‘Ah, now you have been known to embellish your stories, Albret,' said Gabriel, ‘but in this case I think you have purposely misled us. You did not tell us how beautiful she is.' Taking my proffered hand, he turned it over and pressed his lips to the inside of my wrist. I blushed at such an intimate gesture from this handsome stranger and he winked brazenly. ‘The pleasure is all mine, Mademoiselle.'

Gillet muttered something under his breath as Armand signalled the maid to bring another tankard.

‘I suppose you have heard the excellent news?' asked Gabriel as he made himself comfortable. ‘We have been commissioned to Calais after the tourney. The first part of the ransom has been raised. Jean le Bon will be officially released within the next few weeks. France shall have back her King!'

I was reaching for my goblet at the moment of this declaration and almost knocked it sideways. If not for Gillet's quick reaction, he may well have worn the contents yet again. ‘The ransom has been raised? Gillet, how could you not have known that?'

‘I did know it,' he replied dourly, ‘and was about to tell you this goodly piece of news when we were interrupted.'

Gabriel's eyes darted between Gillet and me and he had the grace to look rueful. ‘Forgive me. It appears that I just stole your thunder.'

‘Yes, you did.'

I could not believe Gillet's rudeness but Gabriel laughed good-naturedly. ‘Armand, you will be glad to hear that your company arrives later today. We are all to escort the King back to Paris.' My cousin was predictably excited but my spirits plummeted, for now I knew that his departure was close at hand.

The talk gradually turned, as it always did with men, to battles and weaponry, then settled upon strategies for the upcoming tourney. Gillet seemed in a better frame of mind as they all shared a ribald joke about lance lengths. I decided to excuse myself. Gabriel leaped to his feet to bow and I made my way to the door. With the instinct of Eve, I knew that both his and Gillet's eyes followed me.

The shadows grew long in the garden and I was packing away my writing accoutrements when Gillet came to collect me for the evening meal. He sat down, leaning back against his elbows with nonchalance.

‘What did you think of our guest? Apparently he is a knight in the banner of Armand's cousin, and Armand has met him several times. He is to join us for dinner.' His pause was deliberate. ‘He is very handsome, is he not?'

Something in his boyish manner begged teasing. ‘Oh yes!' I clutched my parchment against my breast and stared into the clouds. ‘He has the name and the face of an angel!'

Gillet looked so forlorn that I burst out laughing.

‘Come,' I said, holding out my hand. ‘Feed me, Monsieur de Bellegarde. For once I am hungry and it suits my vanity to dine with
two
handsome friends of Armand.'

1 September

I rose this morning to find the inn abuzz with excitement. People had begun to arrive at the tourney stands, eager for good positions as knights and horses scattered across the fields. Pages and squires ran pell-mell, carrying shields, swords and lances, stools, buckets and a hundred other assortments.

Gillet entered my room to find me distracted at my window, hairbrush and ribbon in hand.

‘You are only half dressed! We are waiting for you.'

‘Look! There, that is Godfrey de Chevreuse!' I squealed. ‘And there, the Comte de Soisonnais, I saw him in Paris. And look, ooh, Comte de Melun!' I turned to face Gillet in exhilaration. ‘Don't they look wonderful?'

‘And you will raise a few eyebrows yourself.' He tied my laces, laughing as I gasped in awe. ‘Jehan le Meingre, Seigneur Boucicaut! The
Maréchal de France
. Look at the fierce two-headed eagle on his shield!'

Gillet prised the ribbon from my hand and tied it around my hair, completing his task with a light kiss. ‘Mayhap I should just bring some stools and wine in here and we can watch from your window.' I turned with a frown but he held out his hand, smiling. ‘Come, Lady, or we will be unable to find a decent placing.'

Within the hour, I was leaning against the newly erected barricade, eagerly watching as Gillet chatted with a Flemish merchant. Armand had forgone the stands in favour of assisting Gabriel in his tent.

The noise of the crowd abated as the marshal's herald began his announcement, stating that all lords must present themselves to make their fee oaths. He went on to read a list of the tourney rules as we seated ourselves.

‘Have you been to many tournaments, Cécile?'

‘Only as a child. My papa even hosted some but the war put an end to it. It has been so long that I am not sure I will understand it all.'

‘Well, this tourney is known as a Feast of Arms and will be fought à plaisance as opposed to à outrance. That means it is governed by more rules but fought for prizes rather than ransom. They will take hostages but no actual coinage will be needed to release them at the end of the day.

See there, the black lion rampant on the white shield? That is Comte de Champenoise de Provins. Watch him. He is a fierce competitor. You will find that he works with the Comte de Soisonnais.' He pointed to a red banner bearing a white fleur de lys. ‘You were admiring him from your window.' His arm swung in a different direction. ‘Those are the recets, the locations to which the knights may honourably retire to rest and re-arm. As this is a hastilude, the older squires will join for the experience. Each lord may only bring three squires and they in turn are only allowed knee pieces, cuisses, espauliers and a bascinet bearing their lord's colours. They may include only two weapons, their lances, which you will see now, and broadswords.'

I found my attention shifting from the field to stare at Gillet. ‘But will that not be a huge disadvantage to them in the mêlée? How can they hope to win against a knight who bears more weaponry?'

‘They cannot hope to win, nor should they,' he burst out indignantly. ‘They are but squires-in-training, and to think to win would be arrogant and disrespectful. Armed only with broadswords marks them a squire and, as such, the knights will only cross weapons of a like nature. Nor will they be dragged from their mounts to engage in hand-to-hand combat, but you will find that the field will be quickly cleared of squires so that the fighting may begin in earnest, without fear of striking one by mistake, but that is tomorrow. Today is the running of the list.'

I watched the swirl of blazons and crested shields sorting themselves into battle lines, lining the edge of the field's width. Destriers nervously pawed the ground, awaiting the signal from their masters' knees to charge. The flag dropped and a single knight broke away, as the others waited patiently. Trotting down the line of the opposition, he found the crest he sought, thumping the shield with his lance.

‘Ha!' exploded Gillet. ‘Lieven has chosen Beaupre.'

‘Who are they?'

‘Both Knights d'Artois. They have a long, ongoing dispute over landholdings. Although it is forbidden, they take their personal grudges to the field for vengeance.' Gillet waggled his eyebrows. ‘Watch Lieven. He is the one with the crest of gules and argent per fess. There! The red and white stripes,' he added for my benefit. ‘He will gallop full speed, using his own weight and the momentum of his horse to overthrow Beaupre.' He pointed to the azure shield with three gold oblique stripes. ‘But Beaupre's mount is well-trained and he will use its dexterity to avoid the encounter, then wheel around to reach Lieven before he can pull up to re-engage.'