The Order of the Lily

by Catherine A. Wilson

  Cooing softly, Cécile answered a call as old as Eve and guided him to her breast. He latched on hungrily and she hissed at the sudden clutch of pain.

  ‘’Twill ease the more he drinks,’ said the midwife, standing by the physician as she watched approvingly. ‘The milk will come in a day or two, but what you have now will see him through. Make sure to feed him from each side.’

  ‘Take what rest you can, Lady d’Armagnac,’ added the physician, ‘you have done fine work this night, but we must still lower your fever.’

  Minette was installed into the room, along with a small crib procured from the innkeeper’s wife and, while Cécile slept to regain her strength, her maid tended the babe.

  In those first days, Jean Petit was both a joy and a tribulation to the women. He took to the breast eagerly, but spent many hours thereafter wailing with bellyache.

  ‘My milk must be sour. Perhaps we should employ a wet-nurse?’ suggested Cécile as her maid jiggled the disgruntled babe.

  ‘We have no money,’ Minette reminded her. ‘We spent all we could on this room and the physician. What we have left is for food. But Alfred and the Monsieur should be on their way by now. We need only wait and all will be well. I told the Albret’s captain this morning that we need at least another week before we can move you.’

  ‘And what did he say?’ Cécile had laid her son on the bedcovers and begun to remove the soaked swaddling.

  ‘They spend their time drinking, gambling and whoring,’she replied stonily. ‘They care not if we stay a month.’ She added the wet swaddling to the soiled linens in her basket. ‘I shall not be long.’

  Cécile nodded and Minette left for the washroom. Jean Petit, content for once, gurgled from the bed as his mother tenderly stroked his naked form. ‘You are so perfect,’ she whispered adoringly. Cupping his downy head and tiny but-tocks, she lifted him to her shoulder and her senses filled with his wonderful aroma. ‘How can I deny anyone such a miracle?’ Tears welled in her eyes and flowed down her cheeks unchecked. ‘Forgive me, my love, for what I must do.’

  Cécile had dozed off when Minette reappeared, radiant with excitement. ‘He has come, milady! Milord has arrived. He is stabling his horse as we speak.’

  Cécile’s stomach lurched. Five days of soul-searching had brought her to this moment. She handed Jean Petit to Minette. ‘Lay him in his crib, then help me dress, quickly.’ Cécile d’Armagnac sent a fervent prayer to grant her the strength she would need.

  She sat with her spine rigid against the chair and hid her shaking hands in her lap. The cradle was at her side, Jean Petit blissfully asleep. Minette had quit the room but hovered outside, nearby. Cécile’s heart beat rapidly and she swallowed nervously when Gillet stepped into the room.

  ‘Céci!’ He strode to her chair and, pulling her into his embrace, kissed her deeply. It was nearly Cécile’s undoing.

  ‘Jesu. I have been so worried.’ His attention fell to the infant and, without releasing her, he moved to the crib, his face lighting with joy. He reached down to fondle the bountiful crop of fair hair. ‘He is beautiful, sweetheart. He looks like you.’ Gillet straightened, his scrutiny shifting to her. ‘How do you fare, my love?’

  Cécile pulled away and took her seat again. She set her shoulders back and, looking Gillet in the eye, answered with all the coldness she could muster. ‘How do you suppose, sir? Ruthlessly expelled from my bed, thrown into a carriage and rattled over the countryside to be shipped across the sea, only to all but deliver on the docks. And why? Because you have been contracted to the niece of King Edward! When did you think to inform me of this irrelevant news, milord?’

  Gillet visibly flinched, the colour fading from his cheeks.

  ‘When, Gillet? As you stood beside her on the church porch?’

  Gillet’s nostrils pinched and he fell to his knees at her feet to gather her hands in his. ‘Cécile, you cannot believe that I would comply with this request.’

  ‘Request?’ she screeched in a whisper. Jean Petit squirmed beneath his blanket. ‘I saw the contractual scroll, Gillet. It is a writ from the King, bearing his royal seal – hardly an invitation to dine!’

  ‘Cécile, please,’ begged Gillet. ‘You are upset with me, I understand. But I saw no need for you to worry over an event that was never going to take place.’ He pressed his lips gently against her hand. ‘I have no intention of marrying Mary of Gueldres. You need not distress over what my brothers told you.’ His eyes darkened as he glanced at the child. ‘But they have acted with great dishonour and I will be sharing words with them soon enough on account of this. You must not worry, mon amour . I am here now and I will protect you both.’

  Cécile closed her eyes, unable to watch him, knowing her next words would sting. ‘And when have you ever successfully protected me? We were fools to think love was enough.’

  ‘Cécile,’ Gillet stood, frowning. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Look at my child again, Gillet. You gaze upon a future King of England.’ She held up a rolled parchment. ‘Edward offers me his hand to legitimise our son.’

  ‘You jest.’ Gillet spun away, his spurs jingling as he strode from one end of the chamber to the other.

  ‘My duty is clear, as is yours. The throne of England is too strong for us both.’

  Gillet froze like a marble statue, but his eyes blazed fire. ‘God’s nails! Tell me this is frivolous banter. Say that it is your way of punishing me for having left you in a time of need, and I will welcome your scorn, but you cannot be serious. You run to the very man who cavorts with your mother!’

  ‘You are not listening. One day my son will be king.’

  ‘Upon a throne you detest!’ Gillet collapsed onto the nearby stool and cradled his head. There was a long pause before he looked up. ‘And what of our love, Cécile? Is a humble French knight no longer good enough for you?’

  ‘As husband to the King’s niece, your own status will hardly go unnoticed. You can rise high amongst Edward’s favourites.’

  He stared at her, incensed. ‘High enough to bed a princess when the Prince’s back is turned? Is that what you suggest? You are forgetting, mon chére, I shall have a wife with whom to amuse myself. I may be too busy begetting my own heirs. Perhaps to me vows are sacred and I will not wish to dishonour them.’ Gillet stood and walked to the bedpost. He grasped hold and then punched it with a yell. ‘I do not understand this! Has giving birth emptied your heart as well as your womb, woman? In such a circumstance, we would never be happy. We would never be whole!’

  ‘My son will be a king.’ Cécile’s hands slapped the chair arms and her voice shook. Her face was pinched and grey. Beneath her gown a thousand hot knives were piercing her skin and she felt a heated rush.

  Gillet turned, his voice hoarse as he gazed down at her. ‘I can fight Edward no more. Say the word and I will walk from your life.’

  ‘Our destinies lie in different directions, Gillet. I see that now.’ Cécile retrieved the small chest at her feet and held it out.

  He seized it and, flicking open the lid, withdrew the long rope of moonstones. His eyes filled with desolation.

  ‘You said these stones represent new beginnings,’ murmured Cécile. ‘They belong now to the woman who would share your life.’

  Gillet mouthed a ripe oath and flung the cask at the wall. It smashed open, the brilliant gems spilling over the floor like a blue, glazed waterfall. Startled from his sleep, the babe let out a wail. Gillet strode to the door. ‘Keep them! Considering what you were offering me, I think you will find their worth ample payment for the previous year’s work. I am only sorry now that they are not rubies!’ He turned. ‘Anaïs was right. You are a royal whore!’

  The door slammed and with it Cécile’s heart shattered into a million tiny pieces. Another wave of sickness rolled over her as the baby wailed louder.

  ‘Minette,’ she called breathlessly. She had a desperate desire to bury herself in tears but she must be strong for a little while longer. ‘M
inette!’ The door was thrown open and her maid rushed in. ‘Help me first,’ she ordered as Minette bent to pick up the babe.

  ‘Oui, Mademoiselle.’ Minette took Cécile’s arm and assisted her from the seat. ‘Oh, milady!’

  ‘I know, I know. Get me to the bed.’ They stumbled together and Cécile leaned against the canopy post, the very same Gillet had hit only moments earlier. She gritted her teeth but a sob escaped.

  Minette stripped Cécile’s gown and chemise, both sodden with blood at the back. She threw a cloak over her mistress, gasping, ‘I shall fetch more cloths, milady,’ and quickly fled the room. Racked with shudders, Cécile stared at her clothing, stained ruby-red. The howl of a wounded beast was wrenched from her throat, joining the cries of her son. But Cécile knew not which pain was more excruciating, the knowledge that she had lost Gillet forever, or the reason for which she had let him go.

  Minette returned with clean linen, but Cécile was losing the battle. ‘Fetch the physician, Minette,’ she gasped. ‘Hurry.’

  The physician perched on Cécile’s bed and sighed heavily. He scratched his nose with blood-stained fingernails. ‘I have staunched the flow … for now. Whatever possessed you to abandon the confines of your bed, Lady d’Armagnac?’

  ‘I must quit Calais immediately,’ panted Cécile. ‘Arrangements have been made for this evening.’

  ‘Out of the question! You are not yet healed enough to stand, let alone consider a journey. Your health is of foremost importance.’

  ‘I must go,’ she cried with so much passion the physician frowned. ‘I cannot risk that he … I must go.’

  ‘I do not sanction this course. Your body will not cope.’ He pressed her shoulder gently, his voice softening. ‘Cécile, I have explained your condition carefully. Your son’s birth was a terrible strain upon your body. The infection you fight is a serious one.’ Compassion flooded his rheumy eyes and he gently squeezed her arm. ‘I am sorry. I know it must be difficult to learn that you will never carry another child but the damage inflicted upon your womb was too great. You must rest now. Let yourself heal.’ He stood, sighing. ‘Think of your son, and thank God that both of you survived.’

  A physician may know well the workings of the anatomy, but he can perceive nothing of a woman’s heart, thought Cécile as she and Minette climbed aboard a vegetable wagon before dawn the following morning. She feared that once Gillet examined their conversation he would return, and she could not take that risk. It had taken every ounce of her strength to turn him away this time. She could not do it again. ‘’Tis better that he should despise me,’ she murmured to her babe as she settled him beneath her cloak. ‘Let him marry and have his own heirs.’ Minette lay on the straw, curled into a ball, her tears dried upon her cheeks.

  An amethyst brooch had secured them passage as far as Arras. Cécile planned to go to the Mesdames and regain her health. Then she would find a way home to Larressingle. Since learning she was barren she had not known what to do. But how could she deny any man the right to his own heirs? Oddly enough, it was a question Gillet’s brother, Arnaud, had posed to her in Chilham which had made up her mind. ‘How much do you love my brother, Cécile?’ he’d asked her. ‘Do you love him enough to let him go?’ She inhaled a deep breath of air as they hit the open road.

  Yes, she did.

  A courier arrived the following morning, a missive from Cécile clamped within his grasp. He had been redirected to Dover by the innkeeper at the Port Royal Inn. After reading it Catherine collapsed against Simon, sobbing with anger and grief, unable to comprehend the callous treatment of her sister by the Albret brothers. Roderick also received word he was needed at home and agreed to drop into Broughton on his way to Shalford, to inform the Lady Matilda of her brother’s death.

  ‘It does not make any sense!’ Simon grumbled to himself. He delayed their journey for a further day, concerned by Catherine’s unhappiness. He had thought she would express a desire to return to France to locate her sister. However, it was quite the opposite. Catherine had demanded that he take her to Chilham. Simon’s first attempt to dissuade her was neatly pushed aside, his second encountered stony silence. Catherine did not speak to Simon again until the impressive gates of the estate came into view.

  ‘I would prefer to take you to London and return here myself to deal with Gillet’s brothers,’ Simon offered.

  ‘No, I want to see their faces with my own eyes when they learn the truth,’ Catherine uttered, vengeance in her voice. The great oak doors were opened by a maid, who gasped audibly at their appearance.

  Catherine drew breath and steadied her voice. ‘I demand to see Amanieu d’Albret.’

  ‘I … I am not sure he will see you, Lady d’Armagnac,’ the young woman replied. Catherine watched as the maid’s eyes darted fearfully to a door behind her. ‘Announce us anyway and I will see whomsoever is in reception hall,’ she said, pushing her way past, ‘for I will have words with someone!’ Simon followed and offered his name to the steward.

  Gabby chose that moment to let out a loud wail. The door to the hall flew open.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ demanded an older version of Gillet, striding towards Catherine with a look of disgust.

  Catherine clutched Gabby protectively and resisted the urge to retreat. She jutted out her chin and reiterated her request, deducing the man before her to be Arnaud. ‘I demand to see Amanieu d’Albret.’

  ‘You are in no position to demand anything,’ he replied arrogantly.

  ‘Who is it, Arnaud?’ A female voice screeched from within. ‘Tell them we give alms around the back of the manor . ’

  ‘It is impolite to leave your guests standing at the door.’ Catherine handed Gabby to the maid and entered the hall. A second man rose from a high-backed chair, his face awash with surprise. A woman stood by the fire, her pinched features highlighting the haughty, royal nose. She wore numerous ropes of beads around her neck, bangles clanged at her wrists, and her fingers were weighed down by an assortment of rings. It was as though she had worn her entire jewel collection to display her status but Catherine found her appearance to be both farcical and sad. The woman may have rank but she decidedly lacked class.

  ‘Ghillebert is not available at present,’ explained the more pleasant looking of the two brothers, his smile strained but polite.

  ‘You might decide differently once you hear what I have to say.’ Catherine struggled to keep the trepidation from her voice.

  ‘Throw her out, Amanieu,’ cried the woman, her nose wrinkling in revulsion.

  ‘You may regret such an action,’ warned Simon, standing protectively behind his wife.

  Catherine glared at Amanieu. ‘Yes, I understand you are well acquainted with such behaviour, is that not so?’

  ‘You never did learn to keep your nose out of our business, did you?’ Arnaud moved a little closer. ‘You filthy French whore!’

  Simon grasped the hilt of his dagger and swung around to face him.

  ‘There is no need to be rude, brother,’ commanded Amanieu, his hand raised against Simon’s show of aggression. ‘What do you want here, Lady d’Armagnac?’

  ‘If I were Lady d’Armagnac,’ Catherine paused, allowing her remark to sink in, ‘I would demand an apology. But I fail to see how this could possibly be delivered with any real conviction by men such as you. But, as I am not she—’

  ‘If you are not Cécile, then who are you?’ asked Amanieu, confusion flickering in his eyes.

  ‘I am Catherine, Lady Wexford, daughter of the late Sir Thomas Holland and Joan, the Fair Maid of Kent, who is currently on intimate terms with the Black Prince.’ The woman by the fireplace gasped audibly. Catherine shot her a look of repugnance. ‘You, I believe, are the Lady Mary, my cousin.’

  Mary’s face drew into a pinched grimace and it reminded Catherine of the cantankerous goat at Denny Abbey.

  ‘Then, Cécile is … ’ began Amanieu.

  ‘My twin. And imagine my mother’s displeasure when she l
earns of your recent actions. I must be sure to tell her of Amanieu d’Albret, the pompous, self-opinionated older brother, whose courage extends itself not only to soldiering but also victimising innocent, expectant mothers!’

  Amanieu blanched visibly, his mouth falling agape.

  Catherine’s gaze settled on Arnaud d’Albret. Her heart beat rapidly as she readied the speech she had rehearsed time and again in her mind. ‘Arnaud d’Albret, I fear for your soul! You torture the defenceless and weak and for this …’

  He thrust his face into hers. ‘You cannot frighten me! My priest hears my confessions and I am shriven. My conscience is clear.’

  ‘I think you have said enough,’ intervened Simon, placing his hand upon Catherine’s shoulder.

  Arnaud glared at Lord Wexford but Catherine was past caring.

  ‘Your treatment of my sister was despicable! You think it your right to manipulate others to suit your own needs, to use women like coins, to buy and sell, to gain land and settle debts.’ She brushed off Simon’s hold and stepped towards Arnaud. His fists clenched as she continued. ‘How can you sit comfortably in this home, having treated the previous occupants the way you did? For though Gillet may not have formally given his troth to my sister, he made his promise to her in so many other ways, and he loves her, I know he does.’

  ‘That is a lie,’ screeched Mary. ‘My uncle, the King, will not be happy when he learns of this!’

  ‘Of what will he learn?’ Catherine spun to Mary. ‘I don’t see Gillet rushing to be by your side!’