‘Come, child, take my pallet near the fire.’ Father Pierre was at her elbow and, with gentle encouragement, settled her in his sleeping place, though she had wanted to protest.
About to succumb to slumber, she heard her name whispered. Her last thought before she fell into sleep was of the man who had spoken, her guardian, who seemed to be making definitive plans for her future.
When Gillet de Bellegarde discovered the estate’s rolls, tally-sticks and registers were sadly neglected, he set about putting them into order. Towards the end of the month he rode out daily to oversee the collection of rents, and Cécile, feeling the burden of her condition and tiring more easily now, refused his invitation to accompany him. Gillet returned in the evenings but when he found her fast asleep, he was loath to disturb her. For this reason, he took up quarters in the chamber across the hall. His time sharing of her bed would end soon enough anyway. Cécile was therefore delighted when, at the end of the week, he put aside his manorial duties and surprised her with a visit into the village for the sole purpose of indulging her. She had missed his attention.
‘It is too risky to send for your gowns,’ he explained, ‘and we could both use some new boots. I can’t have my official mistress looking like a homeless waif, can I?’
The first call was to the dressmaker, a neat and tidy establishment occupying two floors and, whilst Cécile was taken upstairs to be measured, Gillet waited below. She returned shortly thereafter and found him bent over the counter, lan-guidly enjoying a tankard of ale with Monsieur Denis, the tailor. Beneath their hands lay many strips of coloured cloth.
Gillet looked up with a warm smile. ‘Sweetheart, I want you to choose some material for a special gown. The Feast of Michaelmas is only four weeks away.’ With a knowing grin he exchanged glances with the tailor as he informed her that the manor would host the annual banquet in the village green. ‘Take your time and choose carefully. This will be a gown for the most special of occasions.’ Gillet and Denis returned to discussing topics closer to their own taste as Cécile browsed the plentifully stocked shelves.
Bolts of damask, patterned in rich, deep colours, lay beneath finer linens and silks, shaming the worsted twills and humble homespun at their side. Another chest boasted a wide array of peltries, red squirrel, cony, polecat, fox, Irish hare, beaver, otter and even very expensive ermine. Leathers of fine kid, calf and ox were sprawled over a table, while the baskets below it spilled over with glistening braids. With a gasp of delight Cécile spied a bolt of rose-burgundy velvet.
‘That is a perfect choice,’ said Gillet as the tailor removed it from the shelf.
‘It is exquisite!’ exclaimed Cécile.
Monsieur Denis held out a length and waves of colour shimmered with the movement, a rich, deep rose darkening to black in the shadowy folds. Then he noticed the blue wool tied to one corner.
‘I am sorry to disappoint the young lass, Lord d’Albret,’ said the tailor, shaking his head, ‘but I do believe this one has been purchased already. My assistant has marked it but he should have withdrawn it from sight.’ He watched the disappointment crumple Cécile’s smile and added, ‘At least let me check.’ But on consulting his ledger, he corroborated his suspicion. ‘I am so sorry.’
‘It pleases my lady so,’ replied Gillet. ‘Can you not order more?’
Monsieur Denis shook his head. ‘Alas, no, milord, it was a very rare shipment.’
Cécile returned to examining the laden shelves, sighing wistfully. ‘It matters not, Gillet. There is plenty more from which to choose.’ Finally, when she could not, Gillet decided upon silver brocade for a gown and a bolt of rich blue velvet for the surcotte.
He retrieved his beaver hat from the counter with a wayward smirk. ‘I have already outlined to Monsieur Denis your requirements over the next few months, and I happen to know that he has excellent taste, so we can leave the rest of your wardrobe in his capable hands.’
Glowing hotly, Cécile bade farewell to the elderly clothier as Gillet deposited a bag of coin onto the board. Once outside the shop, she huffed indignantly as Gillet assisted her into the saddle. ‘Did you have to be so blatant?’
‘Your pardon, Lady?’
In a peevish imitation of Gillet’s words, Cécile recited, ‘“I have already outlined your requirements for the next few months!”’
Gillet blushed salmon pink and looked over to the brightly painted building. ‘I merely meant the upcoming occasions,’ he explained, ‘Noel, Michaelmas feast, and possibly a short journey. Do you think we need explain that you are with child?’
Laughing with relief, Cécile calmed his discomfort. ‘No, the seamstress was far more astute when taking my measure-ment. And subtle! But I am curious,’ she squinted suspiciously, ‘how can you be sure his taste is excellent? Is he so well acquainted with making gowns for your mistresses?’
Gillet mounted Inferno, grinning as he sidled up to Ruby. ‘Shrew! Ten years ago Monsieur Denis owned a shop just like this one, in Casteljaloux. You forget, darling heart, that I have four sisters. Besides, I thought you would rather accompany me to the horse fair but, if you prefer poring over fabrics, I can call back and collect you later.’
‘Horse fair?’
Gillet nodded. ‘The main auction won’t be until next week but meanwhile prospective buyers can see some of what will be on offer. I am keen to have a look.’
For the rest of the morning they walked the pitted field and Gillet pointed out the important features to note when acquiring a new mount. A silver stallion from the Andalusian Mountains of Spain caught his eye but he was quickly informed that it had already been sold. His temper flared when he saw the new owner take a whip and flay the animal into moving.
‘Fools,’ he muttered as they made their way to sit beneath a shady tree, full tankards in their keeping. ‘They have no idea of the animal’s spirit! It takes a special kind of handling for a beast like that. And I’d have paid more handsomely!’
‘Is it really so important?’ asked Cécile, looking at the numerous enclosures. ‘Like my burgundy velvet, there are many more from which to choose.’
‘The Albrets are, amongst other things, horse breeders, sweetheart, and possess some choice bloodlines. The rarest is Inferno, which is why I am thinking it time to put him to stud next year with Ruby.’ He glanced across the field to where the silver, dappled steed was prancing, and sighed. ‘But more to the point, it is to what I would settle, breeding horses fit for the stables of kings, and that beast would have set a fine seal upon my name.’
‘And where do you plan for this stud to be?’ Remembering what Margot had told her of the inheritance, Cécile gazed around her. ‘Here? In Chilham?’
Gillet shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe, or France.’
‘France? Where in France?’ echoed Cécile, surprised by this admission.
His smile was wistful as he regarded her. ‘My name is not an empty one. It carries property and wherewithal.’
‘You would settle on Albret lands?’ she gasped. ‘But that would put you under the rule of Aquitaine. You would be under Edward’s control!’
At the risk of spilling his ale, Gillet flung his arms wide. ‘Are we not here?’ His grin grew wider. ‘I am teasing you. This estate can go to Arnaud, with my blessing. Two years of risking my neck for the Templar Order was not without compensation. I have my own lands in Bellegarde, but they are in need of work.’
‘Bellegarde? But I thought that name was just a ruse,’ she cried incredulously.
Gillet laughed. ‘Does it surprise you, Lady Sprite, that I can earn my own way in this world without having to depend on the “sanctimonious Albrets”?’
This was an animated side of Gillet which Cécile had not before seen, and she liked it. ‘Tell me of Bellegarde,’ she encouraged, sipping her ale.
Gillet took a deep draught from his tankard and leaned against the tree, fixing his gaze into the distance. He spoke of the beautiful green countryside of the Loire valley, rich and fertile.
He told how he planned to build a grand set of stables so he could breed a selection of horses so fine the royal Master of the Stables in Paris would ride the short journey south to Bellegarde to purchase only his animals.
‘The keep is almost finished. War will return,’ he announced prophetically. ‘If not with England, then perhaps Spain. There is no glory or riches to be made in truce, and such being the case, there will always be a great need for destriers. As well as the decorative, I can breed the most serviceable beasts to carry men into battle.’ The eyes he turned upon Cécile shone with brilliance. ‘And I will need heirs to carry on my good name. An alliance between Albret and Holland has been considered highly favourable in the past. What say you?’
‘Why,’ gasped Cécile, her fingers fluttering to her breast in mock horror, ‘milord, are you asking me to marry you?’
Gillet leaned forward and raised her hand to his lips. ‘No.’ He grinned. ‘Not yet.’
Their spirits high, they rode for home, laughing as they raced past the gatehouse. Breathless and exhilarated, Cécile drew rein outside the stables. Gillet lifted her from the saddle and, still euphoric from his ride, planted a hearty kiss on her mouth.
Cécile blushed as she saw the head groom watching them.
‘Your pardon, Llewellyn,’ Gillet coughed with embarrassment. ‘I did not see you there.’
‘No ’arm done, Sire.’ He tipped his head, grinning broadly. ‘Miss.’ He nodded to Cécile. His ample frame boasted moder-ate height as he tugged his grey forelock respectfully.
‘Llewellyn, meet Mademoiselle Cécile d’Armagnac,’ introduced Gillet. ‘She is my honoured guest and will be staying with us for the winter.’
‘Pleased I am, Miss.’
‘As am I, Llewellyn,’ answered Cécile, but it was the young, dark-haired woman, hiding in the shadows close behind who captured her attention. Clothed in a deep green gown, the girl was fair skinned, dark lashes lacing her hazel stare, cheeks the colour of ripening peaches, and thick lustrous curls to her waist. Memories of Rosslyn de Caux sprang to Cécile’s mind and she groaned inwardly. But this girl was even more beautiful than the widow. She was youthful and, worse, she had stars in her eyes as she gazed with fixation at Gillet. A shiver ran down Cécile’s spine.
‘Llewellyn ap Ynyr is our horsemaster, sweetheart, and though Welsh, the best in England,’ puffed Gillet as he pulled up Inferno’s girth strap to release it. The girl’s gape grew to owlet proportions when she heard Gillet say ‘sweetheart.’ Her gaze shifted and Cécile felt herself pinned beneath the burning hatred. The girl wheeled around and fled.
The movement alerted Llewellyn and he swivelled, scratching his scalp. ‘Gwynedd? Damna girl! Where is she gone to now?’
Gillet looked up sharply. ‘Gwynedd is still with you?’ He laughed uneasily. ‘I thought she would be married by now.’
‘Agh!’ Llewellyn hawked and spat into the dust. ‘Not as though she’s no’ been offered, like. She’ll not accept any o’ them. Says she’s awaiting, but for what I know no’ for sure. She’ll be apleased to see you though. Ah, Trefor.’
A young lad, foal-lanky and freckle-faced, emerged from the stable, grinning from ear to ear. He sprang forward to take Inferno’s reins. Gillet winked and ruffled the unruly mop of curls. ‘Take the Mademoiselle’s horse but check first,’ he advised. ‘The lady may wish to groom her own mare today.’ He bent closer to the lad, ‘And don’t stare into her eyes or she’ll turn you into a toad!’
‘Gillet!’
Gillet laughed and clapped the boy on the shoulder. ‘The Welsh are a superstitious lot. Céci. They will believe anything. What say we look at stable,’ he directed to Llewellyn. ‘How fare the plans for the extension?’
‘Might be best if you look for yourself, Sire.’
The men proceeded down the aisle, their discussion shifting to the suitable feed mixes as Gillet stabled Inferno. They disappeared round the corner of the L-shaped construction, their voices receding from earshot.
Cécile set to work brushing the dust from Ruby’s coat, the mare whickering across at Inferno. She thought about what Gillet had said – allowing Ruby to breed with the stallion next season – and was pondering this outcome when a harsh, guttural voice startled her.
‘Ye will no’ warm ’is bed very long.’
She glanced up to find that Gwynedd had not fled far. The girl leaned over the railing, her tawny eyes flashing animosity.
‘I said, ye will no’ warm ’is bed very long.’
Cécile’s smile stretched tight as she tried to overcome the sudden thudding in her chest. ‘Your pardon, Mademoiselle?’
‘Ye heard aright.’
‘Oui, I heard, but I fail to see how you could know such a thing.’
Gwynedd pressed forward, her voice low and malevolent. Ruby shifted nervously. ‘Whsssk! I know it. ’Tis no’ fer naught that I cast me magic. Afore long, less an’ less ’e will be wantin’ ye.’
Cécile felt an eerie rippling over her skin, and Ruby stamped her leg, moving irritably beneath the brush strokes. The muffled voices of the men were returning and Cécile sighed with relief. Gwynedd heard them too and jerked back.
‘I give ye fair warnin.’ I’ll be replacin’ ye soon enough!’
‘Oh!’
The brush fell from Cécile’s grasp to the ground and as she bent to retrieve it, Gwynedd bared her nails and hissed. Ruby lashed out and Cécile was flung against the stall.
‘Cécile!’ Gillet ran down the aisle to throw open the gate as Gwynedd disappeared into the shadows. ‘Whoa girl, whoa.’ He caught Ruby’s mane and, running his hand along her neck, soothed the skittish mare. ‘Jesu,’ he muttered angrily. ‘You know better than to stand behind a horse! Are you hurt?’ He helped Cécile to her feet. ‘You are trembling.’
‘Gillet, Ruby has never, ever lifted a hoof to me before.’
‘Well, maybe she was stung by something – a gadfly perhaps.’
‘Or a witch’s curse,’ mumbled Cécile, dusting off her skirt.
‘You are as pale as whitewash!’ Gillet took the brush from Cécile and gave it to Llewellyn. ‘Have Trefor finish the grooming.’
‘As ye wish, Sire.’
Gillet took Cécile’s arm and assisted her from the stable. Once outside, where the light was better, he lifted her hem to inspect her leg. Her stocking was torn and blood from the wound trickled to her ankle. He scowled and lifted Cécile into his arms. ‘Lady, can I not let you out of my sight for even a minute? You are a disaster on two legs! What were you thinking? Suppose Ruby had kicked higher – that is no miller’s son you carry!’
Embarrassed and hurt by his scolding, Cécile struggled with tears as she slipped her arms around his neck. ‘It wasn’t my fault, Gillet.’ A cold shiver made her look back and she saw Gwynedd watching them from the shadows. The girl smiled triumphantly.
‘No, it never is,’ snapped Gillet as he strode towards the manor. ‘But I, at least, can prevent it from happening again. For the safety of this child I think you should refrain from entering the stables until after your confinement.’
‘No!’ cried Cécile. ‘Ruby would never deliberately hurt me. Something scared her.’
‘Exactly! One can never predict such moments, so I forbid you to take the chance. Griffith shall groom Ruby and I will hear no more upon the subject. It is high time you took responsibility for the seed you carry!’
Stung by his vehemence, Cécile glimpsed once more over her shoulder. Gwynedd had gone. ‘You said the Welsh are very superstitious. Do they practise charms and incantations?’ They had reached the rear door of the manor and Gillet set her down gently.
‘Wiccan? Now you are beginning to sound like the villagers. Llewellyn’s daughter disappears into the forest from time to time but she simply collects herbs and berries for healing. This is a small town, Cécile. Do not be lured into the gossips’ tales.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘I could tell you that Llewellyn’s oldest son, Griffith, can work magic with horses but
that doesn’t mean he is a necromancer. Now go, attend this wound and do not forget, I forbid you to enter the stables.’
Cécile limped through the arched portal. She paused to watch Gillet striding back to the horses. She suddenly felt very cold, or was it her imagination? Gillet was planning extensions, work that would require his daily attendance. And she had just learned that Llewellyn’s daughter also worked in the stables, a girl definitely besotted. And from where had she just been excluded? Was it coincidence, clever manipulation or ancient Welsh sorcery?
Over the next few days, Cécile felt her fear turn to foolishness as Gillet’s attentions became fixed upon repairing the estate’s mill. He rode out daily, returning late in the evening, content that his efforts would see the huge stone wheel grind flour before winter. The serfs were jubilant.
With Margot still recovering, Cécile was left to her own devices and, exploring the manor, she chanced upon a room hiding a trestle table and old patterns. Though sewing was hardly her forté, the idea of presenting Gillet with a garment made by her own hands filled her with excitement. She could just imagine the expression on his face when she offered it to him, and besides, it would help pass the long, empty hours.
Throwing open the dusty chests, she was amazed to find a rainbow of rich colours hidden beneath the lids – bright leaf-green, deep red and purple damasks, gold brocades, striped and plain lustrous cendal. An array of silks, shot with silver, cream and gold, selections of velvets and wools, but it was a splendid dark blue samite that she hugged to her breast. It would be a perfect matching companion to her new gown. Wondering why Gillet had purchased materials from town when these were under his own roof, she spread out the glorious samite upon the table and began to lay the pattern.
For the next two days, Cécile d’Armagnac was to commit every possible seamstress sin. With the tip of her tongue poking out, she carefully cut around the fabric pattern, only to find she had forgotten to allow for seams. Resolutely pushing her mistake aside, she began again, only to discover some hours later that she had sewn the sleeves in upside down. Laboriously unpicking her stitching and sucking her needle-pricked fingers, she then proceeded to stitch them inside out. By the afternoon of the third day, she completed the garment and laid it reverently on the board, tugging the uneven neckline and crooked hem into place. She stepped back to survey her work. There was no hiding the one sleeve that was a good inch longer than its partner and the lacing holes across the front did not line up. She collapsed onto the stool, eyes welling and her bottom lip trembling. Her expectation of receiving one of Gillet’s wondrous smiles as she presented her workmanship had quickly dimmed.
The Order of the Lily Page 8