The Order of the Lily

by Catherine A. Wilson

  ‘Is this where you slept?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I was on the other side of the hallway.’

  Catherine showed him each of the four dormitories. She left her own until last. ‘This is where the novices sleep.’ It was no different to the other rooms inasmuch as the bedding was the same. However, the floor was covered in a green moss.

  ‘The walls have sunk on this side, so when it rains the water seeps through the stones,’ she commented as though it were of no matter. ‘And as you can see there is nowhere to hide anything.’

  Simon shook his head in disgust. It was just as well his aunt was away or he may have been unable to hold his tongue.

  They returned to the cloister and Simon sat within one of the recessed carrels where nuns were able to read in private.

  ‘How often did you see your benefactor?’

  ‘At mass, every day,’ Catherine replied.

  ‘No, I meant how often did you speak directly with her?’

  ‘Not often. She rarely conversed with any of the novices, unless it was to impart news of a personal nature or to punish bad behaviour.’ Catherine coloured. She had told Simon of the times she had sinned and the discipline she had endured.

  ‘And this punishment took place in her private chapel?’

  ‘Yes, it can only be reached via Lady Mary’s reception room or through the vestry at the back of the church.’

  ‘Show me.’

  They retraced their route to the St Pol apartments, through to a door that opened onto a flight of stone steps. Simon lit a candle and followed his wife up the narrow stairwell which led to the private chapel. The oak door was ajar and light streamed across the floor. Simon felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and drew his sword. He brought up his left arm, tucking Catherine behind him, as his gazed shifted to the darkened corners of the room.

  ‘Is something amiss?’ Catherine asked as she eased herself forward.

  ‘I sense …’ Simon’s words were cut short as a figure stepped from the shadows. ‘Salisbury!’

  ‘Greetings, Wexford. Decided to join the hunt, have we? I see you brought along a key. Good evening, Lady Holland.’

  ‘It is Lady Wexford,’ Simon corrected.

  ‘For now, however,’ smirked Salisbury, eyeing Catherine, ‘I am sure your mother could find you a much better match.’

  Catherine moved closer to Simon. ‘I do not require a “better match,”’ she retorted.

  ‘Not now perhaps, but once your husband is convicted of treason.’

  ‘Treason?’ Catherine choked.

  ‘Not only have you and your husband directly disobeyed your king, it would appear that Lord Holland did not receive a request for the marriage.’

  ‘Hardly possible since Thomas Holland is dead,’ Simon snorted.

  ‘Yes, and Joan is consoling herself,’ Salisbury sneered, ‘by fornicating her way into the Prince’s heart.’

  Catherine gasped, shocked by the Earl’s innuendo. ‘No, you are wrong. My mother— ’

  ‘Only has eyes only for the crown. Thomas should not have suggested that his daughter take precedence over his adulter-ous wife.’

  ‘What you suggest is treason.’ Simon rounded on Salisbury, his blade raised.

  ‘It was you,’ Catherine cried in anguish. ‘You and my mother betrayed and killed my father!’

  ‘Come now, that is harsh. My involvement was miniscule for all that I gained.’

  ‘And what was that precisely?’ Simon demanded.

  ‘What I always wanted … retribution. Thomas Holland robbed me of my fortune, my good name and finally, my mother. He deserved to die a beggar’s death.’

  Simon struck first, aiming at his enemy’s chest but William deflected the blow. ‘How much were you paid, you filthy bastard? More than a bag of trinkets, I’d wager!’

  ‘It will never replace what I lost,’ spat Salisbury. The blades clashed again.

  Simon pushed forward, his strength fed by anger.

  Salisbury’s face contorted. He defended himself desperately as each attack thrust closer to its intended mark. Forced back, he tripped over a pew and lost his momentum, falling heavily to the floor.

  Simon moved swiftly to disarm and sent his enemy’s sword skimming across the flagstones.

  Salisbury lifted his jaw defiantly as the tip of Simon’s blade rested at his throat. ‘Why do you hesitate?’

  ‘I think it would be far better for you to arrange an audience with the King. He might like to hear of your many dealings, and pardon my indiscretions at the same time.’

  ‘Somehow I do not think that would please the Lady Joan, or her lover.’

  ‘You have another suggestion?’

  ‘I do,’ he said, rising. ‘I could speak with Joan and plead your case. Now that she has the Prince’s ear, she could be persuaded to act on your behalf.’

  Simon kept his blade firmly against Salisbury’s throat.

  ‘With royal consent you could live in relative peace,’ persisted Salisbury. ‘Surely you don’t want to spend the rest of your life on the run?’

  ‘It matters little to me,’ Simon declared.

  ‘Perhaps not. But what of your delicate wife?’

  Simon’s gaze turned to Catherine. She had suffered numerous injuries and illnesses since leaving the sanctuary of the convent. She was not used to life on the road. A stable existence would suit her. Mayhap it would suit them both, he pondered.

  Salisbury saw his chance and seized it. He drew his dagger and lunged.

  A sharp sting tore up Simon’s arm and he stumbled backwards.

  Salisbury retrieved his sword and swung around but Simon was upon him. Salisbury dodged the well-aimed strike.

  Both were formidable swordsmen but Wexford was growing tired. The two men fell against the altar, sending the wooden cross crashing to the floor. Salisbury groped for something to throw. He grabbed the cloth covering the chalice and tossed it in front of Simon’s face, blocking his view. Wexford fell back, defending each blow that rained down upon him. He wanted to encourage his enemy closer, to lure him into a false sense of confidence. Timing his attack perfectly, Simon plunged his dagger into the Earl’s groin. Salisbury fell to the floor, his face pale as blood seeped from beneath his braies and he lost consciousness.

  ‘Simon,’ Catherine gasped, rushing into the outstretched arms of her husband. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ replied Simon, staring down at the unconscious man at his feet. ‘But I hope he’s finished siring children.’

  The noise of their altercation had roused the attention of several nuns, including the Abbess.

  ‘What is going on here?’ Sister Bernadette demanded.

  ‘We were attacked,’ Catherine began.

  ‘This is William, the Earl of Salisbury who, not so long ago, wreaked havoc upon this institution and injured Lady Mary St Pol,’ Simon explained.

  ‘Remove him to the infirmary,’ ordered Sister Bernadette to the nuns. ‘I will send a message to the Bishop. We cannot be expected to deal with this man’s continuing disrespect. What am I to tell our patroness? Look at the damage!’

  ‘We will right this mess,’ offered Catherine as Simon assisted two young novices to roll the unconscious Earl onto a stretcher.

  ‘Bless you, child. When you have finished come speak with me in the infirmary,’ Sister Bernadette instructed.

  Simon held the chapel door open as the nuns carried Salisbury away, accompanied by Sister Bernadette. He then turned his attention to the scattered debris that littered the floor. Catherine was attempting to right the wooden cross but appeared hampered by its weight.

  ‘Simon,’ she began, but her husband was already beside her.

  ‘Not your normal relic I am guessing!’ He raised his eyebrows as the unusual construction of the item became clear. ‘Catherine, close the door.’

  Simon waited until she was on the opposite side of the room before lifting the ornament above his head. He smashed it against the wall
.

  Catherine covered her gasp as the timber splintered. ‘What are you doing? Are you mad?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ answered Simon calmly.

  Three further blows were required before the wood gave way, exposing a tightly bound object. He unwrapped the cere-cloth to reveal a two-handed broadsword. Even in Simon’s seasoned grip the weapon appeared extremely heavy.

  ‘Oh my Lord!’ exclaimed Catherine. ‘I cannot tell you how often I have prayed before that cross and to think it was never a religious item.’

  ‘Many would disagree with you,’ replied Simon as he reverently ran his hand over the hilt. ‘I had long suspected that it was hidden here in the Abbey, but my aunt always denied it.’

  ‘Perhaps she did not know,’ Catherine suggested.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Simon placed the weapon on top of the altar and sat in the front pew, still gazing at the sword.

  ‘What shall we do?’ asked Catherine.

  ‘What Salisbury told us is true. I cannot be seen in London for I would be arrested on sight.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because I have lied to the King on numerous occasions about locating and harbouring you and now, the sword.’

  ‘We are to keep it?’ Catherine gasped.

  Simon shook his head. ‘I have given this much thought and have decided that I must return the Lady to her rightful place in Dumbarton Castle.’

  ‘But what of Bertrand du Guesclin? Is he not expecting you to bring the sword to Paris? To the Templars?’

  ‘He is. I will be directly disobeying his orders, but my conscience will be best served if I follow my heart. I know this will not please you Catherine, as it means that I must be away to Scotland when you would rather greet your new nephew.’

  Catherine sighed. Scotland was so far from France and Cécile.

  ‘I will have Roderick escort you to Calais whilst I travel to Dumbarton alone.’

  ‘No, Simon!’ she exclaimed. ‘It will be very difficult to convince the King that we are happily married if I am not by your side.’

  He turned to look at her. ‘So, you are happy then?’

  ‘I am in love with my husband,’ Catherine shyly admitted.

  ‘And I with my wife.’ Simon pulled her into his arms and kissed her. ‘I promise you, once we deliver the sword I will write to the court and present our case. I am sure King Edward will allow us a fair hearing.’

  ‘And the Lady of Scotland?’

  ‘She will reside in Dumbarton where Wallace intended,’ he replied.

  Alone in the chapel, Catherine lowered herself to the floor and lay face down on the cold flagstones. She recited the prayers of her childhood and begged protection for her sister and nephew and for the safe passage of Gillet, wherever he was. Unable to change her circumstances she felt power-less, separated once again from those she loved. Yet the joy of her marriage was surprising and beautiful and not to be overlooked. A twinge in her back forced her to sit in the pew. Placing her hand over her abdomen she saved the last blessing for the life she now knew grew within. She had longed to share the news with her husband but Catherine was certain that he would not allow her to undertake the dangerous journey to Scotland if he knew her condition. She had begun to doubt that she would ever experience a peaceful existence, a quiet life surrounded by family. Returning the sword to Dumbarton would be no easy task but she would be at her husband’s side and ultimately that was what her heart desired.

  Jean Petit lay on the bed and gurgled happily. Temporarily freed from his bindings, he kicked out his legs and thrust his fists into his mouth with a squeal. Cécile collected the clean swaddling from the basket and bent over him. ‘The priest was right to name you “a sounder.” You make a royal noise when you are hungry!’ The smile she gave her son was poignant. ‘Today is going to be difficult for your maman, so you must promise to be good.’ The door to her chamber opened and the indomitable trio of the Mesdames and Margot clamoured in, grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘Good morning,’ they echoed as one.

  Cécile eyed the three ladies suspiciously. Distracted from her task, she did not see her son’s face shrivel in concentration. A spray arched into the air and splashed against her bodice.

  ‘Sacré bleu, Jean Petit! Look what you have done! Maman had donned her best for church.’

  Covert glances flew between the women as Cécile sat and ill-temperedly dabbed at her sodden gown. It was hardly a good beginning.

  ‘No matter, dear,’ said Rosetta brightly. ‘We plan to attend a later Mass today.’

  ‘We have a surprise for you,’ clucked Violetta as Minette and Veronique appeared at the door, bearing a large tub and two heavy buckets.

  ‘What is this?’ questioned Cécile, half-heartedly as she bound her son’s ill-timed equipment in swaddling.

  ‘We have decided to treat you, my dear,’ said Violetta, clapping her hands together in delight. ‘You are the great-granddaughter of King Edward I and today we are going to make you a princess in your own right.’

  ‘It is high time that you started behaving as one of your rank,’ admonished Rosetta. ‘Margot will mind the babe. Come, we have work to do.’

  Cécile began to protest but she was ‘whished’ to silence. Violetta nodded with conspiracy to her sister and departed, only to reappear moments later buried beneath a mass of deep crimson-burgundy velvet, so dark in the folds, it shone almost black. Cécile caught her breath. It was the most beautiful gown she had ever seen.

  ‘Today you are to be Lady Holland, great-granddaughter of a king!’ said Margot, nursing Jean Petit.

  ‘After your bath, you will don this gown and take your walk by the river. We want to see the colour back in your cheeks, dear.’

  ‘Am I not to break my fast?’ asked Cécile, her hand poised over the lustrous material.

  ‘When you return,’ chided Dame Rosetta softly. ‘Oh child, we just want to see you smile again. Our renovations are finished, except for this room, and since we are to move you to a fresh chamber, we decided to make it a special day. Please indulge us, dear.’

  A thrill of pleasure reawakened in Cécile as her fingers brushed the velvet. ‘You should not have spent your money on me.’

  ‘Pfft!’ Violetta waved aside the notion. ‘We had a little left over, and it is ours to bestow where we wish. Now come, humour two silly old ladies – at least for today.’

  An hour later, the maids had bathed Cécile and liberally splashed her with rose-water. Her hair was cleverly woven, a single tress twined and pinned on each side with gilly-flowers, the remainder hanging loose to her waist in shining waves. She stood in an under-gown of golden silk as Minette and Veronique carefully lifted the velvet over her head and settled it into place.

  ‘Rumour has it,’ chatted Veronique, ‘that Joan of Kent herself has crafted this latest daring court fashion.’ She pulled the deeply scooped neckline to sit properly. It was edged in a band of sumptuous gold embroidery and dipped sensually between Cécile’s breasts. The hem and generous sleeves, the points of which almost touched the ground, were similarly adorned with gold thread.

  Dame Rosetta fastened a gem-studded platelet belt around Cécile’s hips but frowned at the young woman’s necklace. ‘I wish I had something more suitable to give you, my dear.’

  Cécile’s hand flew to her silver medal of Saint Gilles. ‘No! I … like … this … thank you, Dame Rosetta.’

  ‘Milady has the most magnificent rope of moonstones,’ offered Minette. ‘They would look superb.’

  ‘No.’ But before Cécile could protest further, the women had violated her jewel cask and swathed her neck with the shimmering gems.

  Veronique held up a large sheet of polished metal. They all gasped at the transformation.

  ‘You look beautiful, Cécile,’ breathed Margot, her eyes mist-ing. ‘As delicate as a rose.’

  ‘One that desperately needs to bloom.’ puffed Rosetta. ‘You are wafer thin!’

  Violetta frowned at her sister. ‘Pay
no heed, child. Today you are a princess. Go for your walk now.’

  Cécile was shooed to the door by all the women. Dame Violetta squealed one last objection and thrust a pair of kid gloves at her. Watching their excited faces, Cécile felt the ever-present tears rising. ‘Thank you,’ she choked. ‘You have been such good friends.’

  ‘Go,’ they howled in unison.

  ‘There is a family of ducks that live upon the lake and they are a treat to watch,’ called Veronique but Violetta had the last word.

  ‘Stick to the high bank, dear, near the elm tree. You do not want to muddy your pretty slippers.’

  Outside, Cécile paused to inhale a deep breath of the fragrant spring air. She meandered down the cobbled path towards the lake and when she reached the high bank, paused to watch the sun sparkle on the ripples. The ducks floated over the water. She leaned against the tall elm, glad for this short time alone. A deep yearning dragged at her soul. Today was the day she must let go forever. But instead of feeling reborn, as she had promised herself for weeks now, she felt as though she were dying. It was the twenty-eighth day of March. Somewhere today, Gillet de Bellegarde was getting married.

  Cécile stared up into the sky and then did something she had not done for a long, long time. Softly, she began to sing. It was a desolate, haunting lament, poignant and sad and it suited her well. After all, she would never love another and, from this day forward, Gillet was dead to her. She closed her eyes and allowed her heart to bleed freely one last time.

  ‘Rose, rose, rose, red.

  Shall I ever see thee wed?

  I marry, that I shall, sir,

  When I am dead.

  Rose, rose, rose, red.

  Who will wed thee if thou art dead?

  My true love is dead this one day,

  He shall I wed.

  Rose, rose, rose, red.

  Where will be thy marriage bed?

  In a cold grave, with my true love,

  When I am dead.

  Rose, rose, rose, red.

  How shalt we clothe thee, when thou art dead?

  Clothe in silk and clay, and ashes,