The Gilded Crown

by Catherine A. Wilson

  It is my sad duty to inform you of the untimely death of your father, Lord Thomas Holland. He was a man for whom I had much respect and he was, at the time of his passing, within the retinue of Prince Edward. I believe it was my grief which brought me to the attention of the prince, who has helped heal my broken heart and encouraged me to deal with unresolved matters from my past.

  So saying, I pray you will consider honouring me with your presence at court so that I may clarify any misunderstandings that might remain between us.

  Dedicating my prayers to your good health.

  By your grace, Joan, Lady Holland

  Written from Leicester Castle, 30 April 35Edward III

  Catherine sat by the fire in a high-backed chair, a roll of parchment clenched tightly within her fist. ‘’Tis from my mother. She writes to tell me of her new attachment.’

  Simon knelt beside her and gently removed the missive from her grasp. ‘But she is only newly widowed and has yet to complete her official period of mourning!’

  ‘It is not the haste that tears at my heart.’ Catherine placed her head in her hands. ‘Never could I imagine this turn of circumstance.’

  Simon unrolled the crumpled sheet, the glow from the fire illuminating the small, neat script. ‘Good Lord! The Black Prince?’

  ‘It would seem so and,’ Catherine faltered, ‘I know they are cousins and spent much of their youth together but I can’t believe she would do such a thing.’

  Simon gathered his wife into his arms. ‘Are you sad for yourself, or is this grief for your sister?’

  ‘I have only just written of our news to Cécile, now I must inform her of this!’ Catherine poked her finger at the offending document in her husband’s hand.

  ‘Ahh, but I would like you to consider that there might be much to benefit from this union.’ Simon rose and opened the door of their room, called for the steward and requested parchment, ink and quill. ‘I appreciate your disgust at Lady Joan’s choice, but there is great advantage to having one’s mother close to the man who has the power to both forgive our transgressions and that of your sister and Gillet.’

  ‘That does not relieve my melancholy.’

  ‘No, but it may do so in the future.’ Simon waited for the writing accoutrements to arrive, then sat at the desk below the window. ‘I will write to Gillet and inform him of your mother’s missive. Let us hope that the prince is encouraged to make the situation more … permanent.’

  Catherine’s shot to her feet. ‘You can’t mean that!’

  ‘Oh, but I do, for that would make you the daughter of the future Queen. I doubt Edward would continue to keep you at arm’s length under those circumstances.’

  ‘Do you think marriage is possible?’

  ‘From what I have learned of Lady Joan, I believe the woman capable of acquiring just about anything she desires.’

  ‘But when I think of Thomas Holland, I worry, Simon. Can she be trusted?’

  ‘Absolutely not, but we must go back to London at some point. It would be much better to do so as honoured guests.’

  Catherine frowned. She longed to return south, even if it only meant she would be closer to her sister, but she could not dismiss the fear that gripped her stomach.

  ‘We have months to negotiate a possible reunion,’ Simon reassured her. ‘I will reply to Joan and make it clear exactly what must take place before I consider returning my family to England or France.’

  Catherine stared into the glowing embers of the fire. The blackened stonework seemed to sway, the image distorted by waves of heat. She was struck by the similarity to her own life, for nothing was ever as it appeared to be.

  ‘Would you have good news or bad first?’ Roderick inquired as he threw back the door leading into the solar.

  ‘I am sure Catherine would rather the former.’ Simon offered his brother a full goblet of ale, then indicated to Roderick to sit.

  ‘Your son has arrived in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Gabby? Where is he?’ Catherine swung her head around, expecting to find Girda standing behind Roderick, her son nestled in the maid’s arms.

  ‘A messenger arrived five minutes ago,’ Roderick began. ‘It seems your travelling household has been accommodated in Edinburgh Castle.’

  ‘Edinburgh Castle!’ Simon repeated. ‘Why, in God’s name, when I specifically informed them to make their way to Craigmillar?’

  Roderick shrugged. ‘Seems they were intercepted by a courier who redirected them, at your command.’

  ‘I gave no such command!’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Catherine stood in the doorway and stared down the empty corridor. ‘Who would cause such mischief?’

  ‘Walter.’ Simon and Roderick mouthed identically.

  ‘We should ride there immediately,’ Roderick suggested forcefully.

  Simon observed his distressed wife and considered his options. ‘Have Prescott saddle our horses. Catherine will ride with me. Tonight Gabriel will sleep beneath the same roof as his mother.’

  They departed Craigmillar in haste. Catherine only had time to don her cloak as she rushed to keep up with her husband. He’d told her not to worry, but watching him bark orders at the servants in his eagerness to depart had done nothing to calm Catherine’s nerves.

  Perched in front of Simon’s saddle, she leaned into him as he rode with speed up the ‘Royal Mile,’ the main thoroughfare into Edinburgh. It led directly to the castle which sat high on a plateau, the sheer cliffs dropping away on three sides. Running off the ‘Mile’ were narrow alleyways lined with houses and shops, the streets sloping to the poorer parts of the town below. The emptying of chamber pots turned these steep lanes into rivers of sewage, rain the only hope of washing away the filth.

  As they climbed higher, the air grew sweeter. Catherine caught glimpses of the estuary, the Firth of Forth. The castle itself was atop an enormous rock pipe, the remainder of an extinct volcano, making it almost impenetrable.

  Roderick was ahead of them, Preston and several armed soldiers at the rear. Their pace slowed as they reached the impressive gates of Edinburgh Castle.

  Simon shouted his name to the sentry and they were directed into a large bailey surrounded by both wooden and stone structures, many in complete disrepair. Two liveried servants assisted Catherine from Simon’s mount. A cool gust swept her hood to her shoulders; loose curls whipped free and wrapped themselves around her face. Conducted into an alcove, Catherine managed to tuck most of her unruly hair behind her ears as she and Simon, along with Roderick, were ushered inside.

  The small room was richly decorated with heavy tapestries and ornate rugs. Catherine clung to Simon as feelings of anxiety rushed over her as though she had been abandoned on a moor in one of Scotland’s thick fogs.

  Detecting her discomfort Simon grasped her hand but offered no words of reassurance as their host was announced.

  ‘Lord Robert, Sixth High Stewart of Scotland,’ declared the page from the doorway.

  ‘Simon Marshall, Lord Wexford, his wife, Lady Catherine and Roderick of Guilford,’ continued the boy.

  ‘Simon, lad, it has been too long.’ The tall man embraced Simon warmly.

  ‘M’Lord, ’tis good of you to receive us. I am honoured to have you meet my wife.’

  ‘Good God, Simon! She is bonny,’ Robert declared. ‘I am most pleased to meet you, lass.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Catherine whispered, lowering her eyes shyly.

  ‘Roderick, you old fox, I look forward to hearing your tales.’ Robert turned his attention back to Simon. ‘I dinna think to see you here. I was informed you’d been visiting further north?’

  ‘A personal matter in Glasgow but Roderick dealt with it on my behalf.’

  ‘Aye, I can’t imagine you’d be leavin’ such a pretty thing alone with Walter.’ He jested as he led them from the room.

  Simon fell into step beside him, Roderick offering his arm to Catherine as they followed behind.

  ‘Euphemia was alerted to yo
ur recent change of status,’ continued Robert. ‘Once she finished laughing, she set aside the Douglas Tower for you,’ he guffawed.

  ‘You misunderstand, Robert. We do not require accommodation.’ Simon stopped at the bottom of a steep set of stairs. ‘I was informed that my travelling household was mistakenly directed here and I simply wish to escort them back to Craigmillar.’

  ‘And you require your wife to assist you in this matter?’ Robert smiled slyly. ‘Come now, Lord Wexford, surely you’d both be wishing to be reunited with your son.’

  Catherine’s fingers tightened about Roderick’s arm, fearful of the sudden change in the tone of the Scottish King’s nephew.

  ‘I am sure you’ll be finding the Douglas Tower far more comfortable than Craigmillar and with David and his entourage much engaged with their falcons, you and I will have ample time to talk freely.’

  ‘Of course, M’lord,’ Simon replied. ‘And Walter?’

  ‘Is enjoying the rich company of his brother, the King! I will see you in the great hall this evening,’ Robert instructed. ‘Lady Wexford. Roderick.’

  Catherine watched in disbelief as their host walked away. A servant stepped from the shadows and accompanied the party up several flights of stairs to a walkway which led into a small, round tower.

  As soon as the servant departed Roderick closed the door. Simon’s demeanour immediately changed. ‘Damn him to hell,’ he roared, slamming his fist on the table and a high-pitched cry of an infant echoed from the room above. Catherine lifted her skirt and dashed towards the wooden staircase that coiled around the wall of the circular building.

  ‘Wait, Catherine,’ Simon cautioned but was helpless to prevent his wife from scrambling up the steep treads.

  ‘Girda?’ she cried. ‘Gabby?’

  ‘M’lady, it is you. Praise the Lord!’ Girda appeared genuinely relieved to see them and curtsied as Simon reached the top of the stairs.

  Catherine rushed over and scooped Gabby from the narrow bed into her arms and repeatedly kissed his damp cheeks.

  ‘What happened?’ Simon asked sternly. ‘And where is Hargraves?’

  ‘I have not seen him since our arrival, M’lord.’

  ‘Roderick,’ began Simon, but his brother, anticipating the request, was already halfway down the stairs. ‘I promise you, Catherine, I will get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘He is safe, Simon. We should be at least grateful for this small mercy. Thank you, Girda,’ Catherine added, aware of the fear etched upon Girda’s face.

  ‘I do not hold you responsible, Girda. I simply wish to learn how you came to be here.’

  ‘Brother.’ Roderick had quickly returned and was calling from the room below. Dropping a kiss to Gabriel’s forehead, Simon left the two women to fawn over the baby.

  Reunited with her son, Catherine was loath to let him, go so laid down upon the mattress and hugged him to her. Simon found them asleep less than an hour later and unable to fit on the bed, drew up a chair to sit beside them. Two thin lines of dirt remained visible on Gabby’s cheeks. He had cried himself to sleep. Catherine had tucked him protectively within her cloak, her forehead resting against his. Simon’s heart heaved as though struck with a dagger, the feeling as painful as it was joyful.

  ‘What are you thinking, husband?’ Catherine asked as her eyelids fluttered open.

  ‘My thoughts are of you and our circumstance.’

  Catherine released her cloak and slid to her feet. Simon took her hand and led her to the top floor of the tower.

  ‘Blessed Virgin,’ Catherine gasped. ‘I don’t believe I have ever seen such a beautiful room.’

  ‘Perhaps then there are some advantages to being married to me!’

  ‘Perhaps one,’ Catherine jested.

  ‘Ha, one indeed,’ he snorted as he grasped her hand. ‘I have spoken with Hargraves. It would appear that my household was intercepted by what they thought was the royal guard.’

  ‘King David?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I believe it may have been Robert.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘That I am yet to discover. Perhaps we will learn more shortly.’

  Catherine looked puzzled.

  ‘You forget, we dine with Lord Robert tonight.’

  ‘But, Simon, I have nothing to wear. I cannot attend dressed as I am!’

  Simon smiled. ‘Lady Wexford, you surprise me. I did not think you vain.’

  ‘I am not vain!’ Catherine stamped her foot.

  ‘Do not worry. I am sure you will be forgiven in this instance, held as we are against our will.’

  ‘Do you think we are prisoners?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘That is something we shall discover tomorrow, when it is time for us to leave.’

  Catherine stood beside Simon in the anteroom, waiting to be ushered into the great hall. Without a comb she had been unable to achieve very much with her hair, securing as many curls as possible with the pins that had not been lost on their ride to the castle. She clutched at a section of her gown in an attempt to hide a stain, but nothing could be done to rectify the mud-spattered hem. She could hear the hum of conversation within and wondered just how many guests had been invited to dine with the King and precisely what they would think of her unkempt appearance.

  ‘Simon Marshall, Lord of Wexford and his wife, Lady Catherine.’

  The room fell silent. Catherine was struck by the icy glare of the Scottish aristocracy and dug her fingers into her husband’s arm.

  Simon drew her towards a tall, young man. Unaware of his identity she did not know whether or not it was appropriate to curtsey and tripped over her own feet in panic.

  ‘John, may I present my wife?’ began Simon, barely bowing his head. ‘Catherine, this is John, Seventh High Stewart of Scotland.’

  ‘Lady Wexford, I am charmed,’ he stated confidently. ‘My brothers, Walter, the Earl of Fife, and Robert, Earl of Menteith.’

  ‘Lord Wexford, my ears deceive me. A wife, I heard you say, and not anything like the woman whom I imagined you would marry.’

  Catherine peered around her husband to see who had spoken. He was leaning on the wall, one leg bent so that the flat of his foot sat against the stones whilst he picked at his nails with a small knife.

  Simon kept his back to the man. ‘James,’ he acknowledged but paid him no other heed.

  Several additional gentlemen were introduced – Lord Ralph Neville and Lord Henry Percy among them.

  Catherine nodded and smiled on each occasion, trying desperately to remember their names, but was distracted by a huddle of women who stood whispering in the far corner, Beatrix Odistoun among them. The arrival of Robert and his wife, the Lady Euphemia and Margaret, Lady Logie, put a stop to any further introductions. The King was the last to appear, the cut of his deep-crimson cloak accentuating the broadness of his shoulders. He nodded politely to several guests as he made his way to the dais, pausing when his gaze found Simon.

  ‘Lord Odistoun went to great lengths to inform me of your visit, Lord Wexford.’ King David raised his eyebrows in a quizzical manner. ‘I was greatly amused to hear your news.’

  ‘My good fortune has entertained many,’ said Simon.

  ‘Aye, it has. Come closer, lass.’ David pointed at Catherine, then curled his index finger.

  Catherine curtseyed, uncomfortably aware of her unsteady stance. David was much younger than she had imagined, his thin, dark beard jiggling on his chin as he spoke.

  ‘You have not long been in Edinburgh?’

  ‘I … we … not long,’ Catherine stumbled over her reply.

  ‘We arrived but hours ago, to collect our infant son and were not expecting to stay,’ Simon answered on her behalf. ‘I apologise for our attire.’

  ‘I requested our guests receive assistance from the master of the wardrobe, but it would appear that my instructions were not carried out,’ Margaret Logie retorted.

  ‘It matters not for now we eat,’ David commanded as he took his seat at
the centre of the high table. The master of ceremonies clapped his hands and the minstrels began to play. The feast was carried out on enormous silver platters, balanced between a pair of servants. Spiced pigs’ heads, stuffed geese with currants for eyes, pickled herring, stewed capon and small pigeons were paraded around the room for guests to purvey.

  Simon and Catherine sat at one of the lower tables, Walter and Beatrix directly opposite them. Catherine’s stomach pitched as the smell of smoked trout drifted towards her.

  ‘Try some bread and a little cheese,’ whispered Simon.

  ‘I would love an apple,’ Catherine replied.

  Wiping his blade, Simon neatly quartered and cored the fruit, adding several iced cakes to her plate. ‘Please try.’

  Catherine nibbled on the sweet flesh and willed her body not to reject the meagre offering. The meal was a dreadful ordeal as she fought constant nausea, her head pounding. She sighed with relief when the women were encouraged to depart for the solar.

  The adjoining room was sumptuous though considerably smaller than the great hall. Selecting a seat at a table furthest from the fire, Catherine took a deep breath. She longed for the comfort of the large bed in the Douglas Tower, and to be free from the confines of her tight boots.

  ‘How do you fare, Euphemia?’ asked Margaret Logie. The instant cessation of conversation was telling, as was the straining of necks by several of the older women.

  ‘I am well, Margaret,’ answered Euphemia.

  ‘But you are so pale. Are you sure you are not overcome by some illness?’

  A young woman by Margaret’s elbow sniggered.

  ‘I thank you for your concern, but I can assure you, I am quite well,’ said Euphemia, her smile contrived.

  ‘Then I have been told falsehoods for surely only ill health would prevent you from completing the small task I set you?’

  Euphemia pursed her lips but remained silent.

  ‘And the meal, Euphemia! Your inclusion of so many delicacies!’