‘Mallard or snipe? Take ya pick,’ screeched a peddler as the small travelling party made their way through the centre of Cambridge. ‘All fresh kills, I promise ya. I don’t do scavenging,’ he persisted, waving the long-dead birds in front of Lady Catherine Wexford.
‘Move along. M’lady is not interested in your wares,’ instructed the sergeant-at-arms, positioning his horse between Catherine and the growing number of nosey vendors.
‘Is it always this busy?’ she asked her husband, Simon Marshall, Lord Wexford, who had been conversing with several of his soldiers.
‘No. I believe my return has whipped up additional excitement,’ Simon replied as he waved to a number of well-wishers.
‘I believe they may be more interested in your bride,’ quipped Roderick of Guildford, Simon’s half-brother. ‘And by the look on their faces, I think I can safely say they are somewhat surprised!’
‘Surprised? Why would they be so?’ asked Catherine.
‘Well, to begin with, you don’t have two heads, nor breathe fire,’ laughed Roderick as he closed the space between the sergeant in front and several of their guards caught in the ensuing throng.
Catherine’s mare shied as the bystanders pushed forward. Stall-holders were joined by peasants and noblemen alike, all straining their necks to catch a glimpse of the new Lady Wexford. Catherine grasped the reins tightly, fearful for the first time since they departed Denny Abbey.
Simon could see his wife struggling to keep her mare calm. He urged the crowd to allow him passage, but as each gap appeared it was quickly filled by well-meaning tenants wanting to convey their best wishes. He was fighting a losing battle and he knew it. Simon dismounted and clambered upon the hitching post outside The Laughing Eel.
‘Behold,’ he bellowed. The crowd paused. ‘Behold, Lady Catherine Wexford.’
A congratulatory cheer rose up and, as the townsfolk turned to face Simon, Roderick grasped the bridle of Catherine’s mare.
‘I am a most fortunate man,’ continued Simon, who smiled in response to the whistles and firm nods. ‘Lady Catherine is a rare beauty and possesses a generous and gentle heart. I know you will make her welcome.’ Simon waited until the acknowledgment died down. ‘And I am sure you would not want my wife’s first memory of Cambridge to be one that includes a tumble from her mount.’
His speech was having the desired effect as the horde stepped back, allowing Simon’s soldiers to reform a protective barrier around Catherine. ‘Innkeeper, open two barrels of ale and allow the good folk of Cambridge to toast the health of their lord and lady.’
A third round of cheering greeted the news as Simon tossed the innkeeper a small bag of coins. Within moments the street was deserted and instead, the rooms of The Laughing Eel were packed to overflowing.
‘How do you fare?’ Simon asked Catherine as they crossed the bridge over the River Cam.
‘I am well, Simon. I … I am sorry I caused you much expense.’
‘’Twas very little to ensure your safety.’ He smiled. ‘They did not mean to unsettle you.’
‘It was more that they frightened the horse. I fear I will never be comfortable atop four legs.’
‘Once we round this bend you will be able to fully appreciate our destination and then, I promise you, generous meals, a warm bed and plenty of rest.’
Cambridge Castle sat on top of a steep mound surrounded by high curtain walls. The gateway was impressive, its stone façade broken only by a protective bastion positioned directly above the entrance. Once inside Catherine was greeted by an expansive, cobblestoned bailey. She waited patiently for assistance from her mount as numerous servants swarmed around them.
‘My Lord, we have long been expecting you.’ An elderly steward bowed low before Simon. ‘I sent out your sergeant-at-arms to escort you from Denny Abbey. We had begun to worry.’
‘We were delayed,’ explained Simon. ‘Have you made the arrangements I requested?’
‘Yes, M’lord.’
‘Excellent.’ Simon dismounted and went to his wife. His hands encircled her waist and effortlessly he lifted her from the mare.
Catherine quickly inhaled, drawing her stomach as flat as possible. The last thing she wanted was for her husband to discover her condition before they reached the Scottish border. If he knew, he would not allow her to travel.
‘Please escort my wife to the solar,’ Simon instructed his servant.
‘Will you not accompany me yourself?’ asked Catherine.
‘I must take care of several urgent matters but I will join you shortly,’ Simon explained. ‘I will ask Roderick to walk with you, yes?’
Catherine nodded in agreement. She was pleased that her husband understood and accepted her lack of confidence. A lesser man would simply ignore her discomfort.
‘Come on then, dear sister, let me show you Simon’s little keep.’ Roderick grasped her elbow and encouraged her forward, his playfulness soothing her fears.
‘Wait! Where’s Gabby?’ Catherine exclaimed. The baby had travelled from Denny Abbey tucked in the cart, fast asleep in a basket.
‘Allow me.’ Roderick climbed up onto the running boards and gently passed the baby to Catherine. ‘He certainly is a compliant young man. My daughters all squawked like plucked chickens when removed from their cosy beds.’
‘I did not know you had children.’
‘Three.’ Roderick winked. ‘All precious and thoroughly spoilt.’
‘Do you not miss them?’ Catherine asked.
‘Yes,’ he hesitated, ‘but not their incessant bickering. It pains my ears and destroys my appetite. Absence though, softens the effect. However, I am not yet gone long enough!’
Roderick directed Catherine through a high stone archway and into the great hall. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the dark interior which was illuminated by only one fire. Weaponry of all shapes and sizes hung like evil spectres upon the walls, interspaced by the skins of various beasts and the heads of several deer.
‘My father enjoyed the hunt,’ Roderick explained. ‘He spent many months away from Cambridge pursuing his own interests.’
‘Roderick, did you … did you visit here often?’ Catherine asked tentatively as they made their way up a tall flight of timber stairs which connected the hall to the tower.
‘No,’ Roderick said. ‘I spent my childhood with my mother in Leeds. Simon’s mother, the Lady Elizabeth, was not fond of me.’
‘Yet you and Simon share such a strong bond.’
‘Our father insisted that his offspring be treated with equal favour. I was most fortunate.’
‘As are we all.’ Catherine sent a silent prayer of thanks to Charles Marshall for shaping the accepting attitude of her husband. She knew she would need to call upon it soon for the future of Gabriel of Marquise remained uncertain.
Neither she nor Simon could have foreseen their current circumstance. Gillet had accepted Anaïs’ claim that he had fathered her child. However, once Simon collected the babe from the asylum, Gabriel’s lineage was indisputable. His webbed fingers and toes were undeniably the mark of Lord Moleyns.
‘The solar, Lady Wexford,’ Roderick announced, opening the door to the large room on the second level of the round tower.
‘Oh, my!’
Light streamed in through two square openings, their shutters thrust wide to greet the afternoon sun. Tapestries hung from ceiling to floor and several rugs covered the timber boards. The fireplace was enormous and the peat within burned with vigour.
‘I will leave you in peace.’ Roderick grasped Catherine’s hand and gently squeezed her fingers. ‘You will always have my … loyalty.’
‘And my friendship,’ she said, surprised by his solemn tone.
Roderick released his grip and closed the door, leaving Catherine alone to ponder their exchange.
‘What a strange thing for your Uncle Roderick to say.’ Catherine laid Gabriel upon the bed and unwound his swaddling bands. ‘Perhaps he is feeling a little melancholy. I
should not have asked him about his family. And why would he doubt my belief in his loyalty? Silly man,’ she cooed over the baby. Gabriel gurgled in reply. Catherine paused. The lump in her throat was as painful as the tightness in her chest. ‘Beautiful boy, do you know how precious you are?’
Gabriel produced an abundance of bubbles to accompany his grin and Catherine scooped him into her arms and kissed his cheek. ‘I love you as my own,’ she whispered, ‘and I cannot let you go.’ He pulled a face as she snuggled his neck. ‘I shall ask Simon to secure your future before I share my news. I do not want the arrival of the new baby to overshadow your place with us.’
Gabby caught a handful of her hair and pulled roughly, a wide smile revealing his new tooth. Catherine hugged him, terrified by the thought he could be snatched away. Her attention turned to a sharp knock at the door and she laid the baby back upon the coverlet before giving permission for the stranger to enter.
‘M’lady, I did not mean to disturb.’ A small, elderly woman timidly introduced herself. ‘My name is Girda. I am to assist you with the babe.’
‘Thank you.’ Catherine rested her hand protectively on Gabby’s torso.
The maid looked inquiringly towards the child on the bed. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, Ma’am, I have been warming milk so will feed, change and put him down in the room above?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Catherine said as she reluctantly handed Gabriel to the servant.
‘I was blessed with twelve children of my own and more grandchildren than I can count. This young man will be perfectly safe with me, Lady Wexford.’ Girda gently ran her palm over Gabby’s soft downy head then plumped his cheek with her forefinger. ‘What a gentle soul.’
Catherine relaxed, sat on the bed and listened to the maid chortle away to Gabby as she carried him to the nursery above. A flutter in her belly brought her thoughts back to her own condition. She did not know how Simon would react to the news. It would surely rekindle memories of Rassaq. Catherine could well sympathise with her husband, for the loss of Gabby would certainly break her heart.
She closed her eyes and sent a prayer to Joseph, patron saint of the unborn.
Simon accepted the heavy ring of keys from the steward. ‘When was he captured?’
‘Only yesterday, M’lord,’ the steward explained. ‘He climbed up the outer bailey wall and was found hiding near the gatehouse.’
‘I see. Thank you.’ Simon nodded then dismissed the older man and made his way along the corridor to the last cell.
The heavy oak door contained two reinforced locks, the second added to ensure greater security. Simon unlatched both devices and entered the room without knocking.
‘Wexford! Come to exchange pleasantries?’
John Moleyns scrambled to his feet, his appearance reflecting that of a beggar.
Simon resisted the urge to cover his nose as a fetid odour assaulted his senses. ‘What are you doing here?’
Moleyns smirked contemptuously. ‘You have something that belongs to me. A babe you took from the arms of his mother whilst she lay in her sickbed.’
‘Anaïs was in an asylum!’
‘Where she had been placed against her will,’ Moleyns protested.
‘She was harming the child.’
‘So you took it upon yourself to remove him? A man not without conscience it would seem?’
‘I am not you, Moleyns.’ Simon pushed the door closed with his boot, keeping his gaze focused on his prisoner.
‘No, that much is obvious. But the boy is mine.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Simon’s elbow brushed across the hilt of the dagger at his hip, its solid form providing reassurance. ‘Anaïs would spread her legs for any man with a few coins.’
‘It will be an easy thing to identify him as my offspring.’
Simon pictured the webbed fingers of the babe in his care as he stared at the same disfigurement on the man before him. ‘And what of your wife, Egidia – has she no say in the matter?’
‘My wife will do as she is told.’ Moleyns smiled. ‘I take it she remains a guest in your dungeon?’
‘Egidia happily resides in a cottage outside these walls. She comes and goes as she pleases.’
‘But she chose not to return to me!’ Moleyns hawked and spat on the floor beside Simon’s boot. ‘Perhaps she prefers your bed manners over mine?’
Simon clearly recalled the defeated woman who had stepped from the carriage into his custody four years earlier. During the months that followed, Egidia had slowly returned to health, free from her physically abusive husband.
‘You have no choice, Wexford. Any magistrate would find in my favour. In fact, even the King would agree,’ Moleyns boasted. ‘The boy is mine and I have every right to return him to his mother.’
‘Return him to what? A woman insane with jealousy, to a life of servitude and poverty? Is that what you want for your son? Is it?’ Simon stood toe to toe with Moleyns and could hear the desperation in his voice but instantly regretted the outburst as a sly grin appeared on his captive’s face.
‘Whether I sell him at the wharf or into a brothel, ’tis naught to do with you, Wexford.’
Simon glared at the man before him, dressed in stinking rags, his teeth blackened and gagged as he visualised the life he would force upon Gabby. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Moleyns, as it has everything to do with me,’ Simon replied as he thrust his dagger into the unsuspecting man’s chest.
Moleyns gawked, taken completely off-guard, his snide features softening as death swept through his body and he slumped to the floor.
Simon plunged his hands into the bucket of ice cold water. He searched for a flicker of remorse in his own reflection but could not find one. He should have finished the bastard as he lay wounded in Salisbury’s stable all those months ago but he had hesitated. Then, as now, Catherine was his priority and she had been deeply traumatised, believing herself responsible for wounding Moleyns.
Simon sluiced the contents of the bucket across the flagstones before handing it back to the steward. ‘Have him buried in the churchyard,’ he ordered.
‘Yes, M’lord.’
He accepted a cloth and rubbed his hands vigorously. ‘Speak with Prescott if you require assistance.’
The servant nodded, collecting Simon’s blood-stained doublet before departing.
There was no joy in the taking of a man’s life – not even one as vile as Moleyns – but it had to be done. Simon had seen the pleasure some men took in the torture of young boys and it made him sick to the stomach. He had simply rid them of a problem that would continue to raise its ugly head. He stared at the pink water. Catherine need never know.
When Simon climbed the stairs and entered the solar he found his wife fast asleep on their bed. He had not intended to wake her but could not resist the urge to brush a stray curl from her forehead. Catherine woke instantly.
‘Where have you been?’ she enquired sleepily.
‘I had to speak with my seneschal and his stewards. It is difficult for a lord to run his estate when he is absent for most of the year,’ he lied, without guilt.
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
‘Do you approve of Girda?’
‘From first appearance she seems … competent,’ Catherine answered as she tugged on her husband’s arm and encouraged him to lie beside her.
‘Competent! Is that all you have to say?’
‘She appears clean and she is not …’
‘A prostitute,’ clarified Simon.
‘I was going to say not taken with drink.’ Catherine snuggled up against Simon and tucked her hands under his doublet.
‘Lady Wexford! I am shocked. Woman, it is the middle of the day!’
‘Very funny.’ She laughed. ‘I just want to talk with you.’
‘About?’
‘Gabriel.’
Simon remained quiet for several minutes, recalling his earlier confrontation with Moleyns. He knew she had been waiting for the right moment to broach
the subject of the boy and he was well aware of what was in her heart. ‘You wish to keep him?’
‘Cécile is kept more than busy with the care of Jean Petit and I can’t imagine there would be any reason why Gillet might want us to return Gabriel to France.’
‘Gillet may feel an obligation, as I do, Catherine, to do what is right.’
‘But what is that, Simon?’ Catherine rose up on her elbows and stared down into Simon’s deep grey eyes. ‘Anaïs is unable to care for her son and I doubt Moleyns would take responsibility for him.’
Simon stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘All right, with one condition,’ Simon began but was smothered by Catherine’s kisses.
‘Thank you, thank you.’
‘You have yet to hear what I have to say.’
Catherine leaned back. ‘I am listening, husband.’ She grinned.
‘You may tell whomsoever you like that he is our son, and that we chose to keep him but Gabriel must be told the truth of it from the start. Agreed?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Good. Then it is decided.’
‘I love you, Simon.’
‘And I, you, Lady Wexford.’
A small welcoming supper was served in the great hall that evening. The fires filled the room with a warm glow and as the meal concluded several members of the Cambridge guard gathered around the high table with Simon, Catherine and Roderick.
‘So how many times did you draw your sword, Lord Shalford, and how many men did you cut down?’ one young squire asked when the topic turned to France.
‘Often and,’ Roderick paused, ‘hundreds.’ Simon’s brother puffed out his chest and pulled a ridiculous face that brooked a huge round of laughter.
Simon glanced over at Catherine. She appeared uncomfortable in the presence of so many strangers and had chosen to stand back amongst the shadows.
Roderick placed his arm around her shoulders and pushed her forward, into the conversation. ‘Lady Wexford can tell you much more of our adventures.’
The Gilded Crown Page 4