The value of money was far from Cécile’s mind that afternoon when her wardrobe from Denis finally arrived. The newly-appointed maid, Minette, watched in breathless wonder as her mistress flung open the lids on the coffers with a cry of joy. The items were held up, one by one, then quickly discarded in favour of the next. Before long Cécile’s bed was overflowing with costly fabrics and embroideries, stockings, garters, belts and veils of pearl shot with silver and gold.
Gowns of soft velvets, blue, burgundy and black, lustrous silks, murrey-coloured damask, dark green musterdevillers, the woollen cloth from Normandy, cream brocades, and dark samite spilled over. Another chest brimmed with surcottes, some edged with deep chestnut squirrel pelt or cony fur, and near the bottom were sets of gloves, light cream cheveril and black calfskin leather, lined in soft miniver. Yet a third coffer revealed several chemises in delicate lawn and brightly coloured and beaded slippers, and a black travelling cloak, fully lined and edged in sable. This was a wardrobe worthy of royalty. To be allowed such abundance and extravagance showed not only the wealth the Albrets enjoyed but the power of their position in society.
‘Minette,’ gasped Cécile, ‘I must write immediately and thank Monsieur Denis for his hard work. Go to the solar and fetch my writing materials at once.’ The young girl swept to the door with the speed and grace of a fawn but moments later there was a soft thud, a squeal and a male voice issuing a surfeit of apologies. Cécile peeked out the door to see a young man helping Minette to her feet. Her maid’s cheeks were crimson as she fled downstairs. The young man turned, his face stained with embarrassment and bowed elegantly.
‘Griffith ap Ynyr, squire to the Sire d’Albret, at your service, Lady d’Armagnac. M’lord bids me to inquire whether you are free to join him at the stables in one hour.’ He shot a mortified look sideways. ‘And I humbly beg your pardon for my clumsy inconvenience to your maid.’
Despite her reservations over Gwynedd, Cécile instantly liked this large, blonde-haired sibling. ‘Thank you, Griffith,’ she replied, carefully hiding her amusement. ‘I shall convey your message to Minette, and you may tell your lord I shall be happy to meet him.’
‘Thank you, M’lady.’ He stepped back, bowed again and spun around just as Minette appeared at the top of the stairs, laden with writing accoutrements and juggling the wooden quill box. It slid sideways along the parchment and as she dived to catch it, the collision between her and the retreating squire was inevitable. Minette tumbled headlong into Griffith, and he toppled backwards. Quills and ink flew through the air, parchment scattering in all directions. Griffith shot to his feet, red-faced and babbling as he assisted Minette, equally as rosy and on the verge of tears. Awaiting the discipline such ungodly behaviour warranted, both squire and maid gawked when Cécile let loose a howl of laughter.
‘Since you both seem intent on running into one another, allow me to introduce you,’ she chortled. ‘May it please you, Griffith, to be acquainted with Minette, my personal maid, and likewise, Minette, this is milord’s squire, Griffith.’ She playfully slapped the squire on the shoulder and bent to retrieve her quills. ‘You may as well get to know one another!’
Griffith grinned at Minette. ‘The honour is mine,’ he announced, bowing. The girl curtseyed, then scrambling to collect the parchment, followed her mistress into the chamber but not without a backward glance.
‘Handsome as a Greek god, would you not say?’ murmured Cécile, her eyes twinkling.
Minette placed the accoutrements on the table, her cheeks aglow.
‘Yes, milady.’
Cécile left the organising of her wardrobe to Minette and headed for the kitchen, where she knew Margot was oversee-ing preparations for the Michaelmas feast. Margot’s recovery was almost complete and she had taken the news of her husband’s desertion with relief. To overcome the loss of her child, and as the only resident ‘Lady d’Albret,’ she had thrown herself into the role of chatelaine to keep busy.
The kitchen was a hive of frenetic activity. Servants moved efficiently to complete their allotted tasks and the table overflowed with empty pie shells, half plucked birds, a huge assortment of vegetables, freshly baked goose pies and large slabs of ginger cake.
‘We shall begin roasting the birds soon,’ Margot pointed out to Cécile, happy to share her techniques, ‘then we shall sauté the vegetables, and prepare the chardwardon.’
‘Oh, chardwardon! That reminds me of Maman’s kitchen when I was child,’ reminisced Cécile wistfully, ‘the spicy aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg as she cooked the pears for Michaelmas.’ She sat down with a cup of wine and watched.
Margot checked the progress of each servant and, knotting her sleeves behind her, demonstrated a particular method of peeling and slicing to one of the maids. She added some spice to a broth and directed the geese into the ovens.
Cécile felt a little desolate to not be included in such glorious commotion, so when a kettle, suspended from its hook over the flames, began to boil and was ignored, she rose to move it.
Just then Gillet walked in, singing out to his sister-by-marriage. ‘Margot, Gwynedd told me that one of the kitchen servants borrowed a rasp from the stable this morning. Would you know where it is?’
Cécile looked up, startled. ‘Gwynedd is with you?’ She immediately felt a giddying sensation, light-headedness, as though she were floating on air, followed by an intense pain in her abdomen. The next thing she knew, Gillet was bending over her. He sounded very faint as though her ears were packed with wool and then a buzzing ceased and the sound burst through. She realised he was railing her.
‘Mon Dieu, Cécile! Jesu! What the plaguey hell are you doing? Let me look at that.’
She was guided to a chair. Gillet peeled back her sleeve, uttering profanities as he revealed the large scald on her forearm. ‘Merde. Why are you hauling kettles of boiling water in your condition? Just look at this mess!’
Cécile stared, uncomprehending, at the pool of water at her feet, the upturned kettle and her own blistered skin. Had she slipped? She couldn’t remember slipping. She only knew Gillet seemed angry and she didn’t want him to be, so she smiled. ‘It does not look so bad, Gillet.’
‘Not so bad? Not so bad? You just fainted, Cécile, with a pot of boiling water in your hands, and you sit there and tell me that it was not so bad!’
‘Fainted?’ She blinked. ‘Did I?’ As with a waxing tide reclaiming its territory, her memory flooded back. ‘Yes. I must have. It was when I thought of Gwy … Oh!’ An ice cold shiver ran down her spine.
‘Well you can’t come to the stable now,’ fumed Gillet.
‘Gillet,’ said Margot, patiently, ‘I will tend it. We are lucky, for it could have been much worse.’ She issued orders to the servants hovering close by for cold goose grease, crushed chervil and fresh ivy leaves.
‘Don’t forget the sweet violet,’ quipped Gillet moodily as he rose.
Margot and Cécile exchanged silent looks.
‘Gillet, I was not being clumsy. I … I turned and suddenly felt funny, light-headed, and I …’ She cradled her stomach, her eyes widening. ‘Do you think it may have been Jean Petit trying to turn?’ ‘Jean Petit’ had become Cécile’s pet name for the babe, named for her papa, Jean d’Armagnac.
Gillet bent to pick up the kettle and retrieved a long metal file lying next to the ovens. ‘If Jean Petit trying to turn means that you hit the floor, I would have you somewhere other than the kitchen, and without boiling water in your hands. I think you should stay out of here, for your own safety.’
Cécile stared after him as he quit the room. ‘First the stable, now, the kitchen? What will he deny me next? His bed?’ Even as she said it, the image of Gwynedd rose before her and she felt her pulse quicken.
‘He does not do it to hurt you, Cécile.’ Margot gently applied the goose grease to Cécile’s arm and covered it with ivy leaves. She bound the whole with strips of linen. ‘You should have seen his face when you fell. He blusters so because you frig
htened him. And anyway, he must quit your bed soon for the sake of the child.’
‘I suppose. Margot, do you believe in curses?’
By evening Cécile was sipping wine in the solar when Gillet came in and placed a covered basket at her feet.
‘I met a pedlar in the village today. He was trying to find a buyer for these.’ As though on cue, a chorus of plaintive mew-ing sounded from the wicker container. Gillet extracted one of the cats. ‘She is an Egyptian Mau.’
The cat miaowed loudly as Gillet dropped her in Cécile’s lap. A deep bronze band ran across its head and down its spine to the tip of its tail. The rest of its fur was a tawny buff, fading to a creamy ivory underneath, but with a spectacular pattern of spotted markings over its coat.
‘And her mate is an Abyssinian,’ said Gillet, scooping up the other. A ball of glowing red fur stretched languorously, the dark rimmed, almond shaped eyes blinking.
Cécile gaped up at Gillet, open-mouthed as he kneeled by her chair.
‘I gift them to you and ask your forgiveness for my behaviour earlier. When I saw you faint with that kettle in your hands, I …’
Cécile reached out and placed her hand against his cheek. He took it and kissed her palm.
‘Am I forgiven?’
‘How can I not?’ she countered, still stunned.
‘What do you think to call them?’
Cécile held up the female. ‘This one can be Cinnamon and that one, Nutmeg, to remind me of chardwardon and Michaelmas!’ she laughed.
Gillet slid onto the stool and scratched the head of the Abyssinian. It promptly turned and bit his finger. ‘How is your arm?’
‘It will heal and it only hurts a little. It could have been worse.’
‘Yes, it could and that’s what worries me, so I do not want you overexerting yourself at the feast tomorrow night. Ow!’ Nutmeg sunk his teeth in again and wisely Gillet withdrew his affection.
‘I won’t but, Gillet, do you not think it strange? First my incident with Ruby and then fainting in the kitchen?’
Gillet smiled broadly. ‘Strange? For you, you mean? No, not really.’
The Michaelmas feast was a great success. Large tables were laid out in the village green, triumphantly displaying whole roast geese complete with feathers, as well as pigeon pies, an endless array of vegetable dishes, tarts, fruit desserts and ginger confection sitting in a nest of candied shavings. The villagers revelled in the celebrations and Gillet was hailed as a worthy lord, each time with more gusto. The dancing began and they called for him to join them.
Unable to participate, Cécile contented herself with watching the couples spin around in joyful abandonment but her mood soured when she saw Gwynedd take to the field.
‘That is her?’ Margot nodded to where the girl had positioned herself opposite Gillet.
In a gown of wine-red and her dark, waist-length hair held back by gilly flowers, she looked stunning. The other ladies gave way to her without argument.
‘How dare she mimic her betters! Who gave her leave to wear such an opulent colour and style of dress?’ gasped Margot.
‘A style remarkably similar to one of my own,’ commented Cécile, frowning.
Unaware that the rules dictating feminine fashion amongst the nobility had been broken, Gillet laughed and joked with his male counterparts, his face flushed by many tankards of ale. He did not seem to notice that by the third dance, instead of having a new partner, Gwynedd was still on his arm. The music began whereby the young girl wantonly pressed herself against him.
Margot shot to her feet. ‘ Putain. I can stand no more!’ Staunchly she marched out amid the dancers and, flaunting her rank, she dismissed Gwynedd, claiming Gillet for herself. He greeted this change enthusiastically and, after a few words passed between them, he looked to Cécile and waved. He fanned his hand to show he was running out of breath.
Cécile smiled at Margot’s own brand of cunning and she watched Gwynedd retreat from the grounds. The girl ducked behind a large elm and looked back at the dancers, her face twisted with hatred. Cécile’s heart somersaulted.
The music ended and Margot and Gillet quit the field, panting and laughing together.
‘No,’ gasped Margot, ‘but I’ll warrant that Cécile does not crush your toes as much as I do.’
The humour slid from Gillet’s smile. ‘I would not know. I have never had formal occasion to dance with her.’ His expression softened and he held out his hand. ‘Come, Lady d’Armagnac, you look weary and, since I cannot dance with you, let us retire early and spend what is left of the evening together.’
They made their way slowly back to the manor house, Cécile leaning against Gillet, and his arm firmly tucked around her waist. In the darkness behind them a pair of green eyes glittered.
The cold night air disturbed Catherine’s sleep as it licked at her ankles. She drew her feet further under the blanket and shivered uncontrollably. Simon’s shirt and doublet were proving inadequate and the dainty slippers she had been provided with at the palace were wet through.
‘Are you cold?’ Simon was sitting not far away, his back against the trunk of an elm.
‘Yes, a bit,’ she admitted.
He held out his cloak and offered her the opportunity to join him. Catherine hesitated momentarily, her discomfort far outweighing the fears and doubts she had been experiencing.
She sat down beside her unwilling husband and was immediately encased by the warmth of his embrace.
‘You are like ice!’
‘I know …’ she mumbled through chattering teeth.
‘Give me your hands.’
He took them each in turn and rubbed them briskly, coax-ing the blood back into her blue fingers.
‘I did not mean to imply earlier that I would rather marry Roderick,’ she began shyly, determined to ensure he understood her meaning.
‘I see.’
‘I was taken off guard. I had not imagined that I would be getting married.’
‘To me?’
‘No, well, no. Not to anyone.’
‘You have never considered such an option?’ he asked, turning over her fingers so her palm lay in his.
‘To the church perhaps, but I knew no other life.’
‘Catherine, I want you to understand that this was not of my making, and had there been another way …’
‘You would not have married me.’
‘No, I would not.’
Catherine closed her eyes. The image of Broughton appeared in her mind along with the smiling face of the man beside her. But it was not really him. That Lord Wexford was not the same man with whom she now huddled in the rain. He had been open and friendly. On the boat crossing to Calais she had glimpsed something beneath the hard surface. She had allowed her heart to hope and that had been a mistake.
‘I think I will go back to the fire,’ she said somewhat stubbornly.
‘The heat from the embers would not warm my ale, let alone a fully-clothed maiden,’ he scoffed. ‘Stay put, else you will drown.’
‘Given the choices, M’lord …’ she began and he laughed at her.
‘You misunderstand.’
‘I do not.’ Catherine held back the tears that threatened to engulf her as Simon sat rigid beside her.
‘As I explained to you …’
‘Yes, married I am no longer a prize that can be sold by the Crown. I am now the worthless chattel of Lord Wexford, supposedly no longer a maiden, with no family other than my husband.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, his eyes fixed upon her mouth as she admonished him.
‘What you failed to explain, M’lord, is that if you do not care for me, then why marry me at all?’
‘I lied.’
‘You lied?’
‘I did.’ Releasing her hand he bent his head towards her and gathered her into his arms, placing his lips upon hers.
Catherine had not expected such an honest response and now, helpless in his embrace, she was reminded of the kiss they had once
shared at Broughton. That memory consisted of their lips meeting gently and then parting with such softness it was though she had been warmed by the sun. But this was different. This was all-consuming.
Simon tilted his head and kissed her again. Nestling his hand into the small of her back, he cradled her closer.
Catherine leaned into him, daring to reciprocate she tentatively returned his ardour.
‘Your innocence is your undoing.’
She gasped as his hand rested lightly on her thigh. ‘I … I … think we should …’ she mouthed.
‘Stop,’ he finished for her.
‘My head is spinning. Perhaps I am ill?’
‘No, I do not think so.’
‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because my head is spinning also.’
‘Oh,’ she replied.
He smiled.
She laughed.
He tucked the cloak around them, sealing their heat within.
‘I am still a maiden.’
‘Yes, and as long as you are, there is always void ab initio,’ he suggested.
‘I had considered that.’
‘So, when the time comes, it will be your decision to make.’
She lowered her head onto his shoulder. When the time comes? How on Earth was she to know when that time would be?
Salisbury sat atop his destrier. The priest before him stood calmly between two soldiers. ‘Where did they go?’
‘I know not of whom you speak.’
‘I was taught that lying is a sin. Is that not right, Father Pierre?
The small man remained silent.
‘Still no reply? What of your church register?’
‘I have sworn to protect the innocent and uphold the law of the church. I will pray …’
Salisbury plunged the blade of his sword though the priest’s chest and watched, somewhat intrigued, as the dying man’s mouth worked up and down. ‘It would have been better to speak openly, Father Pierre, for as you see, I have little respect for French traitors.’ Pushing the body with his foot, Salisbury extracted the bloody blade and the priest slid to the ground.
The Order of the Lily Page 13