The Gilded Crown

by Catherine A. Wilson

  ‘But how can we return a sword that is no longer missing?’ Catherine was perplexed.

  ‘Perhaps there is no need to take it back,’ suggested Roderick.

  ‘Sorry, brother, I must right a wrong.’ Simon frowned.

  ‘Is there much difference between the two swords?’ Catherine enquired.

  ‘A man with a keen eye would see the pommel and hilt are similar but the blades are different,’ said Roderick.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Catherine asked.

  ’It means the sword at Dumbarton and the one your husband carries look enough alike to be thought one and the same by most common folk.’

  ‘Until closely examined,’ clarified Simon. ‘Which is why I intend display it as my own. I trust the guards on duty will be no experts.’

  ’Wear it? Are you sure that is wise?

  ‘Roderick, as my wife so recently reminded me, ’tis much easier to catch a mouse when the cheese is waved before its nose.’

  ‘As long as you don’t step too close to the trap!’

  ‘Do you have a better suggestion?’

  ‘None of which I can think.’

  Simon placed his arm over Roderick’s shoulder. ‘It has been more than fifty years since Wallace’s death. There would be few alive today who could remember his face, let alone the cast of his sword. Only the thief would recognise that which he had stolen.’

  Cécile sat down to evening supper and grimaced when she noticed the table was set for three. The Duc de Berri was still in residence then. It had been a week since Gillet’s departure from Gisors and she had assumed the Duc would follow her husband’s example soon after. He had not. Nor had any soldiers been dispatched to collect her son as promised, she reminded herself. She would raise the subject again tonight for her arms ached to hold her little boy. No more than she wished to hold her husband and at the thought that Gillet had been sent on a mission to find one “Ghillebert d’Albret,” she smirked.

  ‘Those must be merry memories.’ Blanche d’Évreux glided into the room. Her cheeks were daintily flushed and a light danced in her eyes as though she enjoyed her own secret. ‘That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile since your husband left us.’

  ‘Forgive me, Vicomtesse. I succumbed to a private moment of reflection.’

  ‘Do not apologise, Lady de Bellegarde.’ Blanche lowered herself into a chair. ‘Sometimes those moments are what hold us fast when we are all alone. I am sorry, my dear, that we had to deprive you of your lord but rest assured it is for good cause.’

  Heavier footsteps sounded. ‘You should not apologise either, Vicomtesse.’ Jean de Berri bent to kiss Blanche’s hand and her complexion grew rosier. ‘It is an honour we bestow upon Lord de Bellegarde, for what more can a man ask than to serve his Crown, hmm?’ He sat down heavily and turned his sherry gaze full upon Cécile. ‘I trust the evening finds you well, Lady de Bellegarde?’

  ‘Very well, your Grace,’ replied Cécile. Her eyes fell to her plate. She did not much care for his regard of late. It had been too forthright since Gillet’s departure. Perhaps Jean de Berri needed reminding that she was another man’s wife. She looked up in time to observe the Vicomtesse and the Duc exchange glances but, as the meal progressed and Jean de Berri’s attention shifted, Blanche d’Évreux became sullen and withdrawn. Not wishing to be the cause of any dissension, Cécile excused herself as soon as courtesy would permit. Besides, the Duc was drinking heavily. It was only as she bolted the door to her bedchamber, tucked Cinnamon into her basket and climbed between the sheets that Cécile realised she had forgotten to ask after her son. Tomorrow, she thought, as sleep overtook her.

  Cécile awoke abruptly, her skin crawling. The candle in the grate flickered though no breeze could be felt. Instantly awake, she lay perfectly still, her heart drumming. Then she saw the shadowy outline standing at the foot of her bed – Jean de Berri, casually attired in shirt and chausses. He moved to her bedside.

  ‘I had not meant to wake you.’ His gaze dropped to where the ribbon of her chemise had unwound. His eyes grew wide and he licked his lips at the generous showing of soft, pink flesh.

  Cécile bolted upright, hauling the covers up to her chin. ‘Your Grace, I … you …’

  Jean sat down and held a finger against her mouth. ‘Hush.’

  The stench of stale wine washed over Cécile and her stomach churned. ‘Your Grace, please,’ she pleaded in a whisper, gathering her blanket tighter.

  Jean de Berri nodded. ‘I should not be here.’ His hand poised mid-air but giving way to temptation, he ran his fingers down her cheek. ‘You are so beautiful. Night after night I sit across the table from you and I cannot forget you were supposed to be mine.’ With a sigh, he lowered his arm. ‘It is true what they say. The more you are denied a thing, all the more you shall wish for it.’

  Cécile glanced at the open door connecting her chamber to the one Gillet had occupied. It was how the Duc had gained access to her room, and was also her only means of escape. As though reading her thoughts, the Duc clamped his hand to her wrist. He was not a tall man, but nevertheless a man; his strength outmatched hers. Cécile began to wriggle and the Duc tightened his grip.

  Enjoying this new sport, he laughed softly, and pulled back the covers to take his fill. The earlier swilling of wine to soften his hurts had served only to sharpen his senses, not dull them, and the show of fleshy thighs as she struggled was too much for Jean de Berri. He lost all reason.

  ‘You should have been mine.’

  Jean tore open her chemise and pressed himself against her. She screamed, but there were as many as eight thicknesses of stone walls to muffle her cries.

  His teeth bit into her neck and he drew the tender skin into his mouth, not with intent to shed blood but to place his seal upon her.

  That his partner was unwilling was, for Jean, irrelevant. He was a Duc, the Prince’s brother, and he was used to acquiring what he desired – and he desired this woman. He smothered her screams with his hand, replacing it at intervals with his lips to catch what frantic kisses he could. He pinned her down and gazed into her wild eyes, whispering, ‘Did they really think a child-bride was going to appease me? But we must all do our duty for the Crown, Cécile. Your husband does his, I have done mine, and now you will do yours.’

  ‘Please, Milord,’ sobbed Cécile. ‘Please, do not do this.’

  ‘Cécile, I swear I have supped all evening with the Devil himself. Temptation is upon me but I know my priest will purge me of all wrongdoing at the confessional.’

  ‘But not so my husband! I beg of you, your Grace, do not make him your enemy.’

  ‘Then help me to resist, Cécile. Turn me away.’ Despite his breathless words, he held her fast with one hand and began to strip her torn chemise with the other, groaning as her breasts came into view. He caressed one, felt the plumpness and his own heated flesh burned for release.

  Something flew across the room as though fired from a trebuchet; an ear-splitting yowl pierced the gloom as it landed upon Jean de Berri. Cécile’s scream was echoed by the Duc as he leaped from the bed, fitting convulsively, his cheek streaked with blood. A ball of bright orange fur dislodged itself from his back and landed beside Cécile. Nutmeg, his form rampant and hackles raised, emitted one long, ominous growl.

  ‘God’s nails!’ The Duc wiped his face and held out trembling, blood-stained fingers. ‘What sort of company do you keep, Madame? Look at my face!’

  ‘Milord,’ gasped Cécile, grappling with the covers. She moved further from the Duc’s reach. ‘This is a male cat, and he abides no fondness for other males in his domain. My husband will bear witness to this.’ She lifted Nutmeg into her arms, fearing the Duc would draw a superstitious conclusion from her cat’s intervention. ‘Your Grace, his female sleeps beneath my bed. He was protecting his mate.’

  ‘No!’ Jean de Berri pointed a shaking finger. ‘He is protecting you! You are in league with the Devil. And that creature is … is … his servant. You … you se
duced me!’

  ‘No, your Grace, please no.’

  Nutmeg yowled again, his tail swishing.

  Jean de Berri hastily stepped back. Clearly suffering shock, he staggered to the door, his complexion pasty. ‘Go with God, Madame,’ he rasped, ‘but He does not exist in this room, not on this night!’

  Cécile saw the stripes across the Duc’s back, the blood beading through his shirt as he stumbled from her chamber. She held her breath and felt the blood pounding around her body.

  ‘Oh Nutmeg,’ she whispered, stroking the still-growling cat. ‘You saved me but at what cost?’

  Unable to sleep, Cécile sat beneath the bedcovers, hunched over her knees, rocking. She listened long and hard for any sign of guards coming to arrest her or her cats. But none came. Perhaps the Duc had taken to his bed, and maybe, after a good night’s sleep, he would see reason.

  By dawn Cécile’s nerves were on edge. Somewhere an early curlew squawked, returning to its nesting mate, and she almost screamed. There was only one place that would soothe her now. She rose, dressed quickly in a simple gown, and headed for the chapel. The familiar scent of candle wax and incense was comforting. She kneeled in the first pew, head bent, hands pressed against her forehead, her fingers clutching her rosary. Her lips moved silently in prayer as she beseeched the protection of Saint Christopher for Gillet, and Saint Jude and the Virgin Mary for herself. It was here that the soldiers of Gisors found her. The Vicomtesse had commanded her immediate presence.

  Escorted through the outer courtyard, Cécile’s attention was diverted to a small, leather-sided conveyance and to the scrawny priest climbing aboard, his grumbles hitting the crisp air in puffs of steam. ‘God be with us all on this journey!’ He waved the driver on and, as the tiny carriage passed them, his eyes widened as they clapped upon Cécile. He crossed himself several times in succession.

  Still musing upon his behaviour, Cécile found herself abandoned at the doorway of the Vicomtesse’s chamber. She knocked and was bid entrance. The former Queen stood by the window, her back turned, her shoulders stiff.

  Cécile sank to her knees. ‘Madame, I can explain.’

  ‘You may save your explanations, Lady de Bellegarde,’ was the curt reply. ‘I already understand more than you know.’ Blanche d’Évreux turned, her cheeks blotchy from weeping. ‘I told Jean de Berri he received no more than he deserved. Please rise and come sit with me. We have much to discuss.’

  Cécile stood, her emotions a whirl as the Vicomtesse sat with a sigh.

  ‘You must think me a foolish, old woman.’ She held up her hand. ‘No, do not protest. I know what I am. Jean and I … well, let us say that when Jean came to me with his ridiculous story, I know him well enough to convince him otherwise. Unfortunately, he took it into his head to go to confession first, but you need not worry. Father Jacques has been called away urgently to a village south of here. They are in dire need of a priest.’ She looked directly at Cécile. ‘Father Jacques is a little zealous. He would have most certainly made something of Jean’s claim that you keep a familiar within your company. I told Jean it was nothing more than a protective cat.’

  ‘And he believed you?’ asked Cécile.

  The Vicomtesse’s hand covered hers. ‘Yes, he did. He owes me that much. But listen now, I have news of a far more urgent nature, and one closer to your heart. How would you like to join your husband in Bordeaux working as my agent?’

  Cécile’s mouth fell open. ‘Whaaa …?’

  ‘You could not present yourself as the wife of Gillet de Bellegarde,’ continued the Vicomtesse, ignoring her gaping guest, ‘nor could you enter as the wife of “Ghillebert d’Albret”.’ Blanche smiled as Cécile’s brows rose and her jaw dropped further. ‘As I said upon your entrance to my chamber, Lady d’Albret, I know more than you think.’

  Cécile’s mouth snapped shut as she scowled. ‘Did Gillet know this?’

  ‘Yes, and Jean has no idea he sent your husband to chase rainbows, although the mission itself is real enough. We wish to secure the alliance of the Albrets before oaths are spoken for England and Gillet is our best chance. But now a new and disturbing piece of information has just come to light.’ The Vicomtesse rose and poured two cups of wine. ‘Gillet will enter the realm of the English in Bordeaux, protected by his Albret façade. It is not the first time he has worked thus for us.’ She held out the goblet.

  Cécile accepted her wine. ‘Us?’

  Blanche d’Évreux looked taken aback as she sat. ‘Gillet told me you knew about the society of which he is a member.’

  ‘We have never spoken of it directly, Madame, but I do believe I know your meaning. You are referring to the Order of the Lily, yes?’

  Blanche nodded. ‘Yes, of course, your sister was with Lord Wexford when they discovered the sword. But I speak now of the body of men behind that order called the Prieuré de Sion. I am held deep within their trust and, Cécile, your own father, Jean d’Armagnac, holds a seat upon their council.’

  Cécile nodded. ‘That was how my papa knew to save Gillet when he fell afoul of Gaston de Foix during the Jacquerie uprising.’ Her head snapped up to meet the keen gaze of the widow. ‘Then you know! You already know Gillet is innocent. You were one of those who helped him escape!’

  Blanche nodded. ‘Yes, and when the time comes, I shall see that Jean de Berri honours his word to speak to the Dauphin on your husband’s behalf.’

  Cécile’s face fell. ‘But what if his Grace changes his mind after last night? I hold no favour with him now.’

  Blanche arched a brow. ‘No, but I do. Let us just say that France can do without another scandal in the royal family. It was enough that I was whisked away from Jean’s father to wed his grandfather. I’m sure the gentle folk of our court would not take kindly to stories of the grandson seducing his grandfather’s lonely widow.’ Blanche rose to peer out her window with a sigh. ‘You see, Cécile, in sacrifice or in pleasure, we all do our part for the good of the Crown.’

  Cécile sipped her wine, her mind reeling. ‘You and Jean?’

  The Vicomtesse turned with a sad expression. ‘Is it so impossible to believe? A greater number of years separate Jean and your sister yet they are man and wife. He cannot take up his marital duties for she has not yet bled.’ She returned to her seat. ‘He may be a Duc but he is still a man first and foremost. Our companionship is mutual and benefits us both. But let us now talk of reuniting you with your husband. One of our agents in London reported the departure of a party from the White Tower, which is currently journeying to Bordeaux under heavy guard. At great risk and loss of life, we know that they carry a parchment which bears the royal seal. This particular item has been lifted from King Edward’s personal chest and is being sent to Bordeaux to be placed within the family vault. That means it is of great importance and too precarious to stay in London.’ Restless again, the Vicomtesse rose to refill her goblet and paced as she spoke. ‘Four years ago Edward released King David of Scotland from his ten-year imprisonment and allowed him to return home. Why? For what reason did Edward let David go?’ Blanche spun to face Cécile. ‘No ransom was raised nor delivered and so France would know if we are about to lose our greatest ally. David shows no interest in the begetting of an heir. We think Edward struck a deal for David’s freedom. The rumour for the last four years is that Edward’s second son, John of Gaunt, shall inherit the Scottish throne.’ The Vicomtesse paused to allow Cécile to process the information. ‘Madame, France would know if the proof of such a foul arrangement lies within this heavily guarded chest bound for Bordeaux.’

  Cécile’s head flew up. ‘And you want me to … to what? Find it? Madame, I am not made of such mettle!’

  The Vicomtesse was amused. ‘Goodness, no! We have trained agents for such things. I merely want you to tell your husband. You need only recite the names of our contacts already entrenched within the Bordeaux court. Our men will do the rest.’

  Cécile’s eyes grew rounder. ‘You have informers with
in the new court at Bordeaux?’

  ‘Of course, as we do in London and Scotland, and as they do, here in France. My dear, did you not know? You can trust no one at court.’

  Surrounded by a contingent of Gisors guards, Cécile waved her farewell to the Queen Consort, Blanche d’Évreux, that afternoon. In Cécile’s possession were letters of introduction to the Vicomtesse’s castles – enough to ensure a good night’s rest for the first stage of the long journey ahead. On her middle finger was a silver ring, the filigree encompassing a dull, green stone and cleverly disguising hinges which allowed the gem to be pushed aside, revealing a compartment beneath. The base of this hidden section was engraved with a tiny shield painted bright red with a star pattern of connecting gold lines and dots; the insignia of Navarre, birthplace to the Vicomtesse and her personal emblem.

  As they rode along the road to Beauvais, Cécile’s lips moved in whisper as she repeated to herself, over and over, the names of the contacts in Bordeaux. Some things could not be committed to parchment. In her baggage, sewn into the hem of one of her plain gowns, was a handsome sum of coin; the maids of Gisors would be sucking their needle-pricked fingers that night. And deep inside her, Cécile felt a glowing warmth, fuelled by the knowledge that she was not only helping France, but her husband as well. The Vicomtesse had asked for complete discretion with regard to Duc Jean de Berri. The price had been set and the women had sealed their own deal. Cécile’s grin grew wider as she rode along. She couldn’t wait to see Gillet’s face when they finally arrived at their new home in Bellegarde and he saw a grand set of stables and outbuildings awaiting him.

  Catherine, Lady Wexford, I bid you good grace.

  I know you will be quite shocked when you receive this parchment and I am sorry for the hurt it may cause. I should have written sooner but was only recently made aware of your location and circumstance.

  I must start by congratulating you on your marriage to Lord Wexford. I am told he is a man held in high esteem by many and has amassed a large fortune so should keep you well.