‘Oh no, no,’ she spluttered, settling herself on the seat beside him.
‘Is it true you dressed Lord Wexford as a monk?’ inquired an older knight known as Hargraves.
‘Yes, and I was made to resemble a leper,’ Catherine added shyly.
‘Is this so, Lord Simon?’ asked a young, blonde soldier named Prescott.
‘I have been required, from time to time, in certain circumstances, to conceal my identity by changing my manner of dress. But, I might add, never have I attempted to look like a woman.’ Simon laughed, clanking his mug down on the tabletop.
‘No need to bring that up,’ huffed Roderick. He reached for the jug and refilled his goblet.
‘Look good in pink you do, Sir Roddy,’ revealed Hargraves, as he spilled his wine in his lap.
‘Better than having one’s throat slashed,’ Roderick quipped.
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ gasped Prescott.
‘I’m sure the men don’t mean to be wicked, Roderick.’ Catherine felt somewhat sorry for her brother-by-marriage as he squirmed in his seat.
‘Lady Wexford, my brother does not need your sympathy and should you discover why he had to don a chemise to make his escape, you may discern that he deserves our ridicule.’ Simon laughed.
Prescott jumped to his feet and using his hands, indicated a well-rounded figure of a woman slowly removing her clothes. Hargraves stood beside him and mimicked the movements. However, it was easy to see he was struggling with the laces atop his braies. Both turned as though hearing a noise. Prescott raised his hand to his mouth in a feminine gesture and feigned a look of surprise before pretending to flee, leaving Hargraves to dress in the discarded, imaginary undergarment.
‘Roderick!’ Catherine exclaimed, colouring at the lewd insinuation.
‘I am not as saintly as my brother here,’ Roderick jested, hoisting his eyebrows at Simon.
‘I can assure you, Roderick, Simon is very far from a saint,’ Catherine declared.
The men laughed with renewed vigour, Prescott rolling from his seat onto the floor, taking with him a full jug of ale.
The merriment ceased when the door to the hall flew open and the arrival of a courier was announced.
‘Lord Wexford, a message from Scotland,’ gasped the young man. He held out a parchment. Simon snatched the document and hurriedly examined it. Roderick tossed the boy a coin before turning his attention to the worried demeanour of his brother.
‘It is from the seneschal at Doune. He writes to inform me he has had a visit from Walter,’ said Simon, skimming over the letter.
‘Leave us,’ commanded Roderick to the men. They gathered up their goblets and jugs of ale, and departed through the side door of the hall.
Catherine placed a reassuring hand on her husband’s arm.
‘Walter of Odistoun is the husband to our sister, Beatrix,’ explained Simon to Catherine. ‘It seems he is considering a proposal to hand over part of our family estate to the Scottish crown.’
‘I never trusted that little weasel,’ hissed Roderick
‘Sorry Catherine, I know I promised we would have time to rest in Cambridge,’ Simon lamented as he gathered his wife into his arms, ‘but I must depart immediately for Scotland.’
‘Leave Lady Wexford here,’ Roderick suggested. ‘I am more than happy to go with you. I would like nothing more than to have a quiet word with that skinny little viper.’
‘No, I want to come with you!’ pleaded Catherine. ‘Besides, we have yet to visit Dumbarton Castle.’
When Simon located the Wallace sword in Denny Abbey, he had decided to return it Dumbarton Castle, from whence it had been stolen, rather than take it to France as instructed by the Templars. Roderick agreed to the arrangement but Simon had not discussed his decision with Gillet, Armand or the other members of the order formed to locate and return ‘The Lady,’ the mystical sword of William Wallace.
‘The quicker we are rid of that hunk of metal the better,’ Roderick complained.
Simon tossed the parchment into the fire. He had much to consider and little time in which to decide. But one thing of which he was sure, he did not want to part from the woman who stubbornly stood by his side. ‘Roderick, inform Hargraves that he, Prescott and twenty of his best soldiers will be accompanying you and me,’ he peered down at Catherine, ‘and Lady Wexford to Scotland. We leave at noon tomorrow.’
‘Thank you,’ Catherine mouthed to her husband.
‘I’d best arrange a better mount for you, and you will not thank me, woman, when you realise how far we must ride!’
A pale morning sun gleamed rays of pink and gold over the colourful pavilions nestled on the Arras tourney field. Dew sprinkled the grass and the air was filled with a crisp, clean scent.
Inside her tent, at the Bellegarde encampment, Cécile d’Albret twirled a bracelet of plaited wires around her wrist. It was a gift from Catherine. She snapped the lid of her jewel coffer closed. ‘What time do you suppose it is in Scotland?’
Gillet ruffled his hair sleepily and gave a jaw-breaking yawn. ‘Dusk.’
‘Dusk?’
The coverlet rocked as he scratched somewhere below his navel. ‘It’s always dusk in Scotland.’
‘Oh.’
Gillet dragged himself from the straw mattress and headed outside. His outline became a shadow on the back wall, followed by a trickling sound. He returned, stepping lively on bare feet as he shivered. ‘You’re up early,’ he noted, pouring fresh water from the ewer into a basin. He plunged his face into the icy depths.
‘Yes. Jean Petit was hungry.’
Gillet reached for a cloth and wiped his face. ‘Jean Petit is always hungry! How are his gums?’
‘Better. The oil of cloves seems to have worked.’ Cécile opened a small wooden box. She had decided to wear the Bellegarde colours and selected a blue ribbon to match her gown. As she threaded it through one of her braids, Gillet leaned over and stirred the contents with his finger. He selected a red ribbon. Cécile looked up in surprise. ‘Would you prefer I wear the Albret colour?’
Gillet’s teeth flashed. ‘That will depend, Milady, upon whom you wish to support. There’s every chance I shall meet Armand in the list today.’
‘Really?’
There were four men Cécile held dear in her life. Her papa and hunchbacked brother maintained their rightful place in her heart as father and sibling. Then there was Armand-Amanieu d’Albret. Having shared an entire childhood believing he was her cousin, she’d granted him a whole corner to himself. But it was not the same passion she felt for Armand’s paternal cousin, Ghillebert d’Albret, better known in the north of France as Gillet de Bellegarde. This man owned her very soul.
She smirked up at her husband and took the red ribbon. ‘Then I shall weave one colour in each plait,’ she teased. ‘And may the best man win.’
Despite her earlier flippancy, Cécile spent the morning dreading the moment when the cousins would face each other. The hours passed and the tourney field gradually thinned of competitors. Mouse and Gabriel won their first round, but both were eliminated in their next. Griffith won the squires division.
Upon Cécile’s knee, Jean Petit gnawed upon a tiny, pine horse that Gabriel had carved for him. The babe was enjoying the noisy rabble and squealed excitedly each time the crowd roared. Cécile looked up and gasped. Riding to opposite ends were Gillet and Armand, just as her husband had predicted.
Like reflections in a pool, they charged to the middle. The crashing of lances against shields and the wrenching of bodies in saddles suggested that the cousins were not holding back, though each turned in their wake, to ensure the other was well. Armand was awarded the first point. The flag was lowered again and Panache and Inferno thundered across the field. In unison the shields dropped, but Armand dipped his further, a risky move which saw his lance slide beneath Gillet’s. Forced to adjust his own aim, Gillet’s alteration at the last second sent Armand’s lance skimming sideways. There was a loud crack,
and a large sliver of wood flew into the air. Armand withstood the jolt but dropped his lance. He drooped over his horse’s mane, gripping his chest.
‘He is hurt!’ cried Cécile as she and Margot leapt to their feet with the rest of the crowd.
Gillet tore off his helm and jerked Inferno around. Armand waved and Gillet’s attention fell to the broken shaft in his hand. He sent Griffith to collect the splintered piece from the field and trotted to the Marshall’s stand whereupon he dismounted and a heated discussion began. Cécile watched as her husband shook the shattered lance. His gauntlet derisively slapped the thick wad of parchment in the official’s keeping. With Griffith’s arrival the shredded piece of wood was fitted back onto the shaft, removed, and replaced again, with much head-shaking. Gillet looked decidedly unhappy and a young boy was sent scurrying across the grounds, returning moments later with yet another administrator.
Meanwhile, Armand dismounted and Gabriel, together with the squires, had loosened his breastplate. The women were mortified as Mouse anchored Armand with his knee and Gabriel pulled free a large fragment of wood from beneath his ribs. It was tipped with blood. Armand’s squire retrieved a fistful of wadding to pad the wound and Ramon brought a ladle of water.
‘Your husband is at it again. He must think highly of his competitor.’
Cécile looked up as her neighbour from the previous afternoon sat down beside her. ‘It is his cousin.’ She smiled. ‘What exactly is my husband “at” this time?’ she asked, bouncing Jean Petit on her knee.
‘Wasting time with the officials, I would hazard to guess.’ The man affectionately chucked Jean Petit under the chin. ‘Giving his cousin more time to recover.’
‘Ah. You are familiar with such tricks? Do you joust, monsieur?’
He kicked out his foot and Cécile saw the sad, twisted leg. ‘Not since my horse fell on me. In the blink of an eye my livelihood was gone. Luckily, I have my father’s trade to sustain me. I am now a humble illuminator in his goldsmith shop.’
‘An admirable profession, monsieur.’
They looked to where Armand had been strapped back into his breastplate. He waved to Gillet.
‘You see?’ Cécile’s neighbour nodded in Gillet’s direction. ‘The dispute at the Marshall’s table seems to be miraculously resolved.’
A trumpet blast called the riders to their markers and the crowd bellowed. With the score one apiece, they were eager to see who would prevail. The flag lowered and both men charged. Hooves kicked up clods of earth as they raced towards the middle, but Armand was struggling. His aim was wide and his lance high and as he brought it down, it fell too low, the pain in his side crippling him. Gillet’s lance was in perfect position and he looked set to unhorse his younger cousin but, realising that Armand was unable to complete the joust, Gillet pointed his lance skyward and passed him by without a strike. This chivalry earned him the crowd’s respect and was greeted just as enthusiastically as an outright win.
Armand retired from the list and was dispatched to the surgeon’s tent. Gillet advanced to the next round.
The last two competitors came forward – Armentiéres and Rouen – both mountains clad in shining steel.
‘And which one would you have victorious, hmm?’ The goldsmith tickled Jean Petit’s tummy and the baby cooed with delight. His tiny fist wavered in the air as a bowstring of salvia snapped. ‘Just remember, whomsoever wins will be riding against your papa in the final round.’ Three passes later, they had their answer. ‘Aah, Madame, your husband will face the “Ram de Rouen”.’
When the heralds called for the final two jousters, Cécile’s stomach rolled. Philippe de l’Aire, her goldsmith neighbour, had spent the last five minutes extolling the prowess of Gillet’s competitor. ‘Bellegarde will not be able to use the same tactics as yesterday,’ he remarked. ‘The Comte de Rouen is no fool. He saw the event and will be watching your husband closely.’
The mob was rowdy, the sun blazed viciously from a bright blue sky, but Gillet looked calm as Griffith handed up the first lance. At the opposite end, Robiérre d’Arques completed the same task. Rouen’s squire turned to Gillet and his closed fist shot into the air as he thumped his hand down upon his forearm.
‘What a rude, despicable creature!’ exclaimed Cécile.
‘A feeble attempt to put your husband off guard, Madame, nothing more.’
The first strike saw both men wrenched in their saddles, but they firmly held their seats. The point was awarded to Comte de Rouen. The herald’s arm plummeted and the steeds thundered down for the second pass. Lances were locked into position and the crowd shrieked with glee when the riders rode so close to each other they all but collided. Both knights flung their weapons after passing to avoid losing their seat. A flag was raised to a burly cheer.
‘Victory to Bellegarde!’
From somewhere behind Cécile someone took up a chant and it spread through the stands faster than a plague.
‘Bellegarde! Bellegarde! Bellegarde! Bellegarde!’
It was down to the last pass and the crowd was hungry for action. Cécile glanced at Philippe de l’Aire’s leg and her blood turned to ice. She silently beseeched every saint she knew to keep her husband sound. Grievous injury and even death were commonplace at tourneys.
A murmur grew amongst the crowd and Cécile watched in horror as Gillet threw down his shield. Griffith was scrambling to unbuckle his cuisses. Greaves and poleyns followed.
‘What is he doing?’ yelled a voice from behind Cécile.
‘He’s shedding excess weight but for what reason I do not know.’
‘How can you call a shield and armour excess weight? The fool!’ said another.
‘If the Ram hits him, he will have no protection.’ crowed a third.
Cécile was almost fainting when Margot dragged at her arm. ‘What is he doing?’
Aside from his mail sabatons and spurs, Gillet left himself sheathed only in a breastplate, gorget and helm. He took up his third lance. The flag dropped and the knights charged. The crowd fell silent, mouths hung open, hands met and clasped, the air rife with tension as the two horses galloped towards one another. One by one the crowd stood.
‘Mon Dieu!’
‘They are playing taunt!’
‘Running the same line!’
‘They are going to collide!’ screamed a woman.
‘Sang de Dieu!’>
‘Sacré Bleu!’
The Comte de Rouen positioned his lance ready to strike.
‘Why doesn’t Bellegarde lower his lance?’
The last shout had fear coursing through Cécile. Even she knew Gillet’s lance was too high and the distance between the riders was disappearing fast.
Margot was biting her knuckles. ‘Lower your lance, Gillet, lower your lance.’
But the Bellegarde knight kept his weapon pointed at the slit in Rouen’s helm.
‘Bon Dieu! He’s going to skewer him like a suckling pig!’
‘Not if he is impaled first.’
It was true. Rouen’s lance was aimed directly at his opponent’s chest, and Gillet held no shield to ward it off. The two men were but feet apart. Cécile thought she would faint.
‘They are going to crash!’ A wild roar went up in unison.
With a mere lance’s length between them, Gillet savagely spurred Inferno. The great beast leapt sideways, all four legs hoofing the air. Rouen’s horse shied and the Comte jerked his head from Gillet’s aim. Airborne, Gillet twisted in his seat, standing in the stirrups, and brought his lance down to neatly hook the Comte’s breastplate. The Comte de Rouen was flung from his saddle like an overheated chestnut spat from a fire. He crashed to the ground indecorously, tumbling faster than a juggler at a fair.
Gillet scooped his lance skyward and almost ran into a barrier before he managed to bring Inferno under control. The horse was snorting wildly, his nostrils and lips foam-flecked. Scarves, banners, flowers, hats, anything that came to hand sailed onto the ground as the crowd che
ered madly.
‘Madame, are you ill? Help me! Help me!’ Philippe de l’Aire wobbled on his unsteady leg as he grabbed Cécile around the waist and saved Jean Petit from hitting the dirt. Margot tore her unbelieving eyes from the field and with a cry, launched herself to catch the babe. Between them they managed to seat Cécile. She had fainted.
‘I think the excitement was too much for her,’ said Philippe. He glanced at the arena, now overrun with spectators. ‘It may be some time before her husband is freed from his newfound worship. Is your tent far?’
‘No,’ said Margot. ‘If you would care to assist me, Sir, I will see you rewarded with a tankard of our finest ale.’
An hour later Philippe was drinking his ale and chatting with Gabriel and Mouse at the Bellegarde campfire as Margot rallied the servants.
With the assistance of her friends Cécile had stumbled her way back to her tent and collapsed upon her paillasse. After retching into a bucket, she’d buried herself in her pillow and wept broken-heartedly.
‘Let her weep,’ advised Philippe. ‘It will douse the fire of her fear.’
A short time later, bereft of all his armour, Gillet slid onto the straw mattress beside her. ‘Cécile,’ he whispered. ‘They said you were unwell.’ He unhooked her fingers from the vice-like grip she had on the pillow. ‘Sweetheart, what is wrong?’
Cécile blinked up at him through swollen lids. ‘What is wrong? What is wrong? Today I stared as Death threatened to take my husband before my very eyes. I saw myself a widow before I had time to enjoy being a wife. I watched as you … you …’ Cécile gulped. ‘The spear was aimed straight at your heart,’ she whispered, before flinging herself against him. ‘Gillet, don’t ever leave me!’
‘Cécile,’ he crooned, and kissed the top of her head. ‘Lady, the only spear that can pierce my heart, is yours. What you suffer is not uncommon for new brides. I am sorry you were so frightened. Dry your tears, my love. A mere tourney will not separate us, on that I give you my word.’
The Gilded Crown Page 5