The Gilded Crown

by Catherine A. Wilson

  Catherine appeared confused. ‘What ransom?’

  ‘Do you recalling me telling you the story of David, the long-time prisoner of our King Edward?’

  ‘Yes, just before we entered Kent last.’

  ‘Edward had David imprisoned for nigh on a decade and released him with the understanding that he pay a large ransom. Ten thousand marks to be precise.’

  Catherine paled. ‘How could anyone ever be expected to pay such an amount?’

  ‘There are many in the Highlands who claim they have already given more than their due, but Edward states he has yet to receive a single instalment.’ Simon frowned. ‘My brother-by-marriage is a snivelling lecher who would do anything to further his position. I am sure he is involved in this deception.’

  ‘What can you do?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘We will attend the Scottish court and meet with David.’ Simon took hold of Catherine’s hand. ‘Whilst I speak with the Earls I need you to ingratiate yourself with the ladies. Make friends, talk … gowns! Between us we will ascertain exactly what Walter and Beatrix are up to.’

  ‘And Fife, do you think Walter will hand that to the Crown?’

  ‘No. He needs Fife to house his mistress and bastards.’

  ‘Does Beatrix know?’

  ‘Of her husband’s dalliances? By all accounts yes, she does.’

  ‘Then her unhappiness is not surprising,’ Catherine proclaimed.

  Catherine spent the day exploring the tower house, said to have been constructed by the monks of Dunfermline Abbey. She was escorted by English Mary, who provided lengthy descriptions for each and every tapestry and piece of needlework. The staff was not excluded either, for she appeared to have an intimate knowledge of every person who had ever been employed within the Odistoun or Preston households. Catherine had to stifle her amusement on many occasions for fear of embarrassing the numerous victims who had unwittingly come to the attention of English Mary. As they entered the kitchens the cook and several young women fled to the safety of the buttery. But by mid-morning Catherine had grown weary of the maid’s prattle and, desiring privacy, begged for fresh air.

  She crossed the courtyard and sat upon a neat pile of virgin stone to watch the masons as they expertly chiselled each block. Their hammer strokes rang out as the men worked independently on the structure that would become part of an elaborate manor house. The original building was dwarfed by the new as it climbed up and around its predecessor. As the sun rose to midday the men ceased their tasks and gathered together in the shade to enjoy the refreshments delivered by several scullery maids. Catherine made her way towards the stables, for if Lord Wexford were to be found then he would likely be biding his time with his men.

  The interior of the large timber dwelling was dark and Catherine waited several moments for her eyes to adjust. She had no doubt of Simon’s presence for his deep voice could he heard over all others. She pushed open the door to find her husband, Prescott and several grooms examining a large stack of horseshoes.

  ‘I’ve used ’em many times, M’lord. They ain’t got no good life left in ’em,’ complained the older man as Prescott rifled through the pile. ‘I’ll call the blacksmith up for ya.’

  ‘There is no need,’ Simon replied. ‘Lady Wexford and I will walk down and speak with him.’

  ‘If it pleases, M’lord.’

  Catherine grasped Simon’s hand. ‘How did you know?’

  Simon shook his head as he led Catherine towards the main entrance. ‘Know what?’

  ‘I needed to be outside, enjoying the sunshine.’

  ‘Well, you don’t like horses!’ Simon gently squeezed her fingers before placing her arm over his.

  ‘I’m sure I do not take your meaning?’ Catherine laughed. ‘Unless you possess some mystical power of which I am unaware.’

  ‘Nothing quite so clever, wife, for you certainly would not seek me in the stables to ask for your horse to be saddled. I assumed you wished to speak with me.’

  ‘Not speak with you, more … be with you,’ Catherine shyly admitted.

  ‘The perhaps you might “be with me” for the remainder of the day?’ suggested Simon.

  Catherine sidled closer and clutched his upper arm. ‘I would like that.’

  Simon wrapped his fingers over hers and led her out the gate. ‘I am to seek the assistance of a blacksmith as it appears Walter has been incorrectly cobbling his horses.’

  ‘Oh … oh dear. Is that bad?’

  ‘My darling wife, I forget you know so little about horse care.’

  ‘I’m afraid I know little about anything much at all!’

  ‘That is not true. I am sure you would correct any religious deviance I may inadvertently commit.’

  ‘Lord Wexford!’

  ‘Yes, M’lady?’

  ‘Now you are being wicked.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he admitted as he pulled her closer to his side. ‘It is wicked to bait you.’

  ‘Yes it is.’ She laughed. ‘When are you expecting Roderick?’

  ‘Soon. We need to gather as much information about Dumbarton Castle as we can. The fortress is formidable and well-guarded. To be caught returning the sword would be as dangerous as to be found stealing it.’

  ‘Do you know who took it in the first place?’ Catherine asked.

  Simon shook his head. ‘No, I was not informed. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Well, ’twas just that I was thinking of Denny Abbey and of the times I would scavenge the burned pastries from the pantry,’ Catherine explained. ‘The cook had long suspected thievery and was apt to lock the small room, but I discovered, quite by chance, the corner of the roof thatch had rotted away, leaving sufficient space for me to squeeze through.’

  A wry smile lit up Simon’s face. ‘You made a fine thief.’

  ‘A fact of which I am most ashamed.’ Catherine blushed. ‘But I was never caught for the cook was not able to discover how her pastries disappeared.’

  ‘I do not ever want to hear you say you know little, my clever, clever wife.’

  Unaccustomed to flattery, Catherine lowered her gaze.

  ‘We need to seek the identity of the thief and discover exactly how he managed to gain entry to steal the sword.’

  ‘That will not be an easy task, for who would admit to such an act?’ Catherine declared.

  ‘True, but it is far easier to flush out a sinner than canonise a saint.’ Simon winked.

  Gillet de Bellegarde reined in his horse and gazed up at the castle of Gisors. The fortress stood atop a motte, and was encircled by a mantlet wall of stone. In the past it belonged to the Dukes of Normandy, and had played many a role as a frontier castle until it fell into the hands of the Crown. Gillet stared at the octagonal keep and slowly made the sign of the cross against his body. It had also been the prison for Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Knights Templar, the unfortunate soul burned at the stake as a heretic. As the story went De Molay challenged his two accusers, calling for them to face God with him in judgement. Uncannily, both King Philippe IV and Pope Clement died before the year was out. The Knights Templar had fallen … or so it was supposed, though some whispered the order still existed in secret. Gillet knew it did. He belonged to it.

  It was through this connection and Simon’s visit to the alchemist, Nicholas Flamel, in Paris the previous year that the Countess de Gisors heard of Gillet’s current plight. Now the former Queen of France, Blanche d’Évreux, had sent for him. Maybe this task she required fulfilled would offer him a chance to earn back his freedom. She may be a former queen but it was known she could still whisper into the ear of the Crown.

  Cécile de Bellegarde stopped beside her husband and looked up at the stronghold. She nursed her own apprehension but for very different reasons. Blanche d’Évreux was the second wife to King Philippe VI of France, and rumour had it the widow still kept close company with her step-grandsons. Her favourite was none other than Duc Jean de Berri, the man to whom Cécile had once been betro
thed. When the troth was broken, Cécile had left the palace without ever having spoken again with the Duc. Now they were to sup with him this evening. For the first time since that fateful day, Cécile wondered just how disappointed had Jean de Berri been over their broken engagement?

  The small contingent of soldiers waited patiently beside the accompanying cart, still on the alert as rumours of routiers in the area persisted. For this reason, it had been decided to leave Cécile’s son, Jean Petit, in Margot’s care back at the inn, along with their servants and comrades. Their visit was only intended as a short stay of two, possibly three nights. Gillet cast one last glance at the formidable structure and then with a snort worthy of his horse, spurred Inferno through the portal into the outer bailey.

  A couple of hours later the pair were refreshed and waiting in the old Queen’s reception room, a well-appointed chamber filled with luxurious furs and tapestries, precious velvet-bound books and exotic carvings.

  Gillet moved between the shelves, silently admiring the collections as Cécile, resplendent in her deep burgundy gown commissioned for her wedding, fidgeted by the fire.

  ‘Nervous?’ asked Gillet, running his finger down the embossed spine of a book of illuminations.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘What do you know of our former Queen Consort?’

  ‘Not much,’ replied Cécile. ‘I think I was about nine when King Philippe died. I remember he was an aged man but it was said that the old queen was very beautiful.’

  ‘She still is,’ quipped her husband with a mischievous smile. ‘Did Jean de Berri never mention her?’

  Cécile shook her head. ‘No, but then,’ her cheeks coloured, ‘I did not really spend that much time with my affianced.’

  ‘Ah, then you might be in for a surprise,’ said Gillet. He moved to stand beside his wife and bent to whisper in her ear. ‘It was also said she loved her husband to death and that in their one short year of marriage, his heart could not withstand her physical prowess.’

  ‘Goodness!’ exclaimed Cécile, half-laughing. ‘I’m sure she is well past such activities now.’

  Gillet cocked one brow. ‘You do know when they call her the “old queen” they are referring to her one-time status as a monarch.’

  Cécile frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’ She caught her husband’s amused expression as the door swung open. Gillet swept into a low bow and Cécile slid from her chair to curtsey. A slender woman, swathed in pale green brocade, breezed into the room with four tiny, white puppies yipping at her heels. Cécile could not hide her shock, nor did she know which was more fascinating – the strangeness of the dogs whose ears resembled huge butterfly-wings or the fact the Dowager Queen looked hardly older than Gillet!

  ‘Madame Vicomtesse,’ said her husband, ‘Lord Gillet de Bellegarde at your service. May I present to you, my wife, Cécile d'Armagnac. We are greatly honoured to be received.’

  ‘Lord de Bellegarde, the pleasure is mine, I assure you.’ She looked with interest at Cécile. ‘So this is your lovely wife. I am aware, Lady de Bellegarde, that had life chosen for you a different path, you would have been married to my step-grandson, Jean. I can see now why he was so disappointed. He is a great collector of all things beautiful. You must be pleased, Monsieur de Bellegarde,’ she said, her attention returning to Gillet. ‘Your wife’s fairness does you a great honour.’

  Gillet bowed his head. ‘The Duc de Berri’s loss will forever be my fortune, Madame.’

  They sat in front of the fire and the one-time Queen, noting Cécile’s fascination with the little dogs, asked, ‘do you like animals, Lady de Bellegarde?’

  ‘Very much so, Madame, but I have never seen the like. Pray tell, what breed are they?’ She eagerly held out her hands to receive one of the white creatures with plumed tails.

  Blanche d’ Évreux’s smile demonstrated a gentle nature as she passed one of her pets. ‘They’re called Papillon and they are a gift from my step-grandson to keep me company.’

  The door squeaked open. ‘Mama?’

  Blanche looked up and beckoned in her daughter. ‘Jeanne, come, come child. I hope you do not mind,’ she commented to her guests, ‘we are far less formal here than at court.’

  The young girl, no more than ten years of age, sidled up to the chair and shyly placed a finger in her mouth. The dusky-rose of her cheeks was far too vivid for the pastiness of her complexion but her large eyes were pretty. She patted the dog resting on her mother’s lap. ‘François says it is time to feed the puppies.’

  ‘Then feed them, we must, dear.’ Blanche hugged her daughter, then relinquished the puppy. Two more Papillon danced at the girl’s feet.

  With a warm smile for the affection she saw displayed, Cécile handed over the fourth dog. Jeanne bobbed a clumsy curtsey, then scuttled from the room, her wispy hair floating across her shoulders and the canines nipping at her hem as they ran beside her.

  ‘She is lovely,’ commented Cécile, disturbed as she heard the girl cough her way down the hall.

  ‘Jeanne is not always strong.’ Blanche sighed sadly. ‘So I keep her close. She is all I have of Philippe, God rest his soul. But there are times when I fear she will see him before me. And then I worry. Philippe never even knew he became a father. How would he recognise her in Heaven?’

  ‘The angels would know, Madame,’ said Gillet, gently, ‘and they would guide her to him.’

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur. You are very kind. But enough of my ramblings,’ she protested, ‘I think we should move into supper. Cécile, do you keep any pets?’

  ‘Two cats, Madame,’ said Cécile as they all rose from the chairs.

  ‘Safely at home,’ added Gillet, holding out his arm to her. He fell into step behind the Dowager Queen, failing to notice the sudden flush to his wife’s cheeks as she placed her hand upon his sleeve.

  ‘I did inform you, Lord de Bellegarde, that my step-grandson will be joining us, yes?’ asked Blanche.

  ‘Yes, Madame, you did.’

  ‘He wishes to speak with you on a matter most urgent. As you know, your wife’s father, Comte d’Armagnac, recently called here on his way to your nuptials. He and I are old friends. The Comte insisted that you, Lord de Bellegarde, could be of enormous assistance in locating a certain gentleman for whom the Duc is searching. Your co-operation in this matter will greatly serve the Crown.’

  ‘I am yours, Madame, and the Duc’s, to command at will,’ acknowledged Gillet. ‘Might I inquire as to whom he seeks?’

  The Vicomtesse turned to face them. Her answer made Cécile blench. ‘A Lord Ghillebert d’Albret. Comte d’Armagnac intimated the two of you were well known to one another.’

  Gillet inclined his head and answered smoothly. ‘Indeed, we are, Madame.’

  Seated within the warm, intimate setting of the solar, Cécile forgot her brief panic and relaxed. The servant held out the bowl of scented water so she could dip her fingers, his heel indiscriminately hoofing the puppy gnawing at his ankle. The four little dogs followed him out, yapping excitedly, as maids filled the table with dishes of various vegetables, jugs of gravy and platters of thickly-sliced game. The aroma was delicious and despite earlier misgivings for her appetite, Cécile’s stomach growled in anticipation.

  Blanche d’Évreux smiled with affection. ‘Ah, here he is.’

  Cécile glanced up to see the unmistakable ‘Valois’ profile of Jean de Berri stoop to kiss his step-grandmother’s cheek, the relationship odd for the fact that their ages differed by only nine summers. They appeared more like brother and matronly sister rather than the two generations which separated their status. Her mind calculating the sums, Cécile decided King Philippe must have been nearly forty years older than his young wife. She recalled it vaguely now. Blanche d’Évreux had been destined for the son, their current reigning monarch, Jean le Bon, but his father-King, having spied her beauty, stole her from him. No doubt the union had set a cat amongst royal pigeons at the time.

  The Vicomtesse introduce
d Gillet to the Duc, and gestured toward Cécile. ‘And of course, you remember Cécile d’Armagnac, now the Lady de Bellegarde.’

  Jean de Berri moved with grace as he came to Cécile’s side and kissed her hand. ‘What a pleasant surprise,’ he murmured. ‘Your illuminating presence at court has been sadly missed.’

  ‘Your Grace,’ replied Cécile demurely, but she caught the dark gleam in Jean’s eye.

  The conversation rallied well during the meal as the two men verbally jousted on agriculture, crossed swords in politics, clinked cups in music and art, and finally rested in acquisitions, though Cécile could have sworn that throughout the entire intercourse, each man was shrewdly taking the other’s measure.

  Gillet was enjoying himself but he noted the number of times Jean de Berri’s gaze wandered to Cécile and, when the conversation began to heat, the Dowager Queen, perhaps sensitive to the rising tension between the two men, redirected the topic to more general matters. Eventually, talk swayed to the latest palace gossip.

  The serving boys entered with a tray of tarts, but when they attempted to clear, Jean de Berri waved them away.

  ‘Later,’ he ordered, disturbed by the interruption. ‘It was never clearly understood, Lady de Bellegarde, exactly what became of you when you disappeared from the palace last year. You were under the protection of my brother, the Dauphin, at the time. Where did you go and in what manner did you arrive? It rankles Charles still that a subject entrusted to him disappeared from under his very nose without a word. He was most distressed.’

  ‘Your Grace … I …’ Cécile was saved having to answer, but what happened next could have been deemed a far worse disaster.

  The servants ordered away by the Duc had opened the door to retreat, which allowed four yapping, white flashes to race into the room. They were chasing a bright streak of red and yellow. The barking was a terrible cacophony, an assault upon the ears and the coloured stripe, emitting the most heinous yowls and hissing, leaped upon the table, whereupon the two hues separated.