The Gilded Crown

by Catherine A. Wilson

  Euphemia drew herself up. ‘I dinna hear any complaints.’

  ‘Perhaps our guests are clever at disguising their dislike!’

  ‘I am unsure of your meaning.’

  Margaret smiled. ‘Lady Wexford, what did you think of the meal?’

  Catherine’s heart jumped at the sound of her name. ‘Lady Logie, I am unaccustomed to such luxury so cannot honestly offer any credible opinion.’

  ‘I think your plate spoke for you,’ declared Margaret boldly, ‘an apple, a small piece of cheese and a few sweetmeats.’ She roared with laughter.

  ‘I am not feeling well,’ retorted Catherine.

  ‘Why? Are you with child?’ Margaret pried gleefully.

  Catherine paled and bowed her head. She did not wish to lie.

  ‘Hmmm, no reply it seems,’ remarked Beatrix sarcastically.

  ‘As my sister-by-marriage is aware, I am recovering from a long journey,’ explained Catherine.

  ‘Lady Odistoun, why did you not inform us?’ questioned Margaret.

  The attention turned to Beatrix and as she stumbled to reply, Catherine busied herself filling the empty goblets of the ladies around her. The conversation moved on and Catherine took the opportunity to inch her way closer to the main door.

  Margaret and Euphemia continued their personal battle, systematically ridiculing guests both present and absent, friends and foes. Catherine was exhausted and fearing that she would eventually be drawn back into the fray she sat down in a high-backed chair, closed her eyes and begged Simon to rescue her.

  ‘Lady Wexford, it is time for us to depart.’

  As though by magic, he was standing beside her.

  ‘The King has given his permission for guests to retire.’

  Catherine grasped his hand and they slipped out into the ante-room and retraced their route to the Douglas Tower.

  As a result of Catherine’s unhappy introduction to court life, she spent the next two days within their suite of rooms, hiding from Robert and Euphemia, King David and Margaret Logie. Simon allowed her to withdraw, concerned for her health as she grew increasingly lethargic. He was not surprised when her absence was noted and much was made concerning Catherine’s lack of courtly knowledge by Margaret and Euphemia. Regardless of her condition, she was expected in the great hall.

  Catherine dressed with care that afternoon, even allowing English Mary to style her hair. Mary had been dispatched, along with their possessions, from Craigmillar. Guests or not, Catherine certainly felt like a prisoner, a vastly unfashionable prisoner. English Mary clucked over Catherine’s choice of the green gown, the same dress Simon had added to her wardrobe whilst she had been a guest in his London home. She had been slightly slimmer then, but now four months pregnant, the dress was tight around her waist.

  When Catherine entered the hall on her husband’s arm that evening, she found to her surprise only six people present.

  Robert Stewart and Euphemia rose to greet them, followed by an older couple, the woman having a striking appearance, her hair black as the night, in complete contrast to her skin, which appeared to reflect light, so pale was she.

  ‘Lord and Lady Wexford, may I introduce, Lord Patrick Dunbar and his wife, Lady Agnes,’ said Robert.

  ‘It is a great pleasure to meet you, Lord Dunbar.’ Simon bowed his head respectfully. ‘I have heard much about you and your wife.’

  ‘Come, lad, we can’t abide formality. I believe you are Simon, Charles’ son, aye?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon as the men sat at the table.

  Agnes grasped Catherine’s hand. ‘You and I are to be friends – great friends, methinks.’

  Relief flooded through Catherine for this woman seemed gentle and kind.

  The King and his mistress were announced and made their way towards the small group. Both Margaret and Euphemia were subdued, neither speaking to the other. Catherine struggled to sit still. Her stomach was churning, waiting for the moment when one of the two woman would pounce on her. And then there was the meal – what would they serve? She sent a hurried prayer to Saint Lawrence, the patron saint of cooks, in the hope that whoever was preparing the meal had not been able to locate eels or anything of a slippery nature. Catherine watched as Agnes engaged Margaret and Euphemia, complimenting one on the choice of her headdress and the other, her gown. Lady Dunbar asked after the Stewart children and appeared to listen intently as Euphemia described their many virtues.

  ‘You seem in better health this evening?’ Margaret asked Catherine, snatching the conversation from her rival.

  ‘Yes, thank you. I have benefited much from resting.’

  ‘There is more colour about you, though I can’t help but think you would do well from wearing a different shade, child,’ she said with distaste. ‘That green makes you look sickly.’

  ‘I am sure Lady Wexford appreciates your advice, Margaret. Mayhap you could suggest to us what you think Catherine should wear,’ interjected Agnes.

  ‘Oh, well, let me see.’ Margaret’s gaze settled on Catherine’s face. ‘I would have chosen something lighter, a pale blue perhaps. There is nothing wrong with green but I would have chosen a shade of emerald.’

  ‘Yes, or even crimson,’ advised Euphemia, who decided to join the conversation.

  ‘I am told that Catherine has little court experience and knows nothing of royal etiquette,’ clarified Agnes.

  ‘I fear I have much to learn.’ Catherine felt her cheeks flush as each woman scrutinised her.

  ‘Mayhap I can assist Lady Wexford, for I am sure my husband will not require my company,’ Agnes proposed.

  ‘Wexford, do you have any objections?’ asked David.

  ‘No, your Grace. I believe my wife would enjoy Lady Dunbar’s company,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, that’s settled. Patrick, I think you and your wife should take the rooms adjoining the Douglas Tower. Margaret will see to it on the morrow,’ he directed as he refilled his enormous wine goblet.

  The remainder of the dinner was far more pleasurable and Catherine was able to relax. Her prayers had been answered – the meal was palatable, the company forgiving and Lady Dunbar proving to be a formidable ally.

  Later that night, encased within the safety of her husband’s arms, Catherine was able to reflect on her eventful evening. ‘Thank you for allowing me time with Lady Dunbar.’

  ‘I would not have refused such a suggestion!’ he exclaimed with surprise. ‘Though I think this may have been prearranged for David is no fool and Agnes is very shrewd.’

  ‘As I witnessed tonight.’ Catherine ran her fingers across Simon’s bare chest, teasing the red curls to spring to life. ‘Why does Euphemia call her Black Agnes?’

  ‘Two reasons, I believe. The first has to do with her appearance and the second,’ he hesitated, ‘reflects the colour of her stubborn heart. In the winter of 1338 Patrick Dunbar was away fighting the English and Agnes was left to defend Dunbar castle alone.’

  ‘Is it a large castle?’ Catherine asked as her fingers crept beneath the sheet.

  ‘That I do not know, but I am told it is situated on a cliff, which did not suit Salisbury when he came a-courting.’

  Catherine gasped.

  ‘Not your mother’s first husband. ’Twas his father.’

  ‘Thank the Lord!’

  Simon laughed.

  ‘Why do you find humour in my declaration?’ she asked.

  ‘Because, woman, you sound much like your husband.’

  ‘I do not!’

  ‘Ah, but you do,’ he joked.

  Catherine harrumphed, dismissing his comment. ‘Well?’

  ‘Salisbury surrounded Dunbar Castle and thought to use a catapult to knock down the walls. But Agnes, who had with her only a handful of maids and a few guards, was not going to give up her home to the English. So between attacks she led the woman out onto the walls where they shooed away the damage with their kerchiefs. You can imagine how Salisbury reacted. Agnes wanted Salisbury’s men to
see that though they had worked hard all day to damage the thick walls, they had achieved nothing more than a bit of dust.’

  Catherine slid her fingers across Simon’s hip and he shifted closer to her.

  ‘The bombardment of the castle continued and eventually Salisbury captured John Randolph, Agnes’s beloved brother, and told her that they would hang him before her if she did not open the gates. Whatever she felt for her brother she hid it well as she told them to go ahead, for his death meant she would become the heir to the Moray land. Needless to say Salisbury didn’t have the guts for it so he let Randolph go and marched back to England, leaving Agnes untouched in her precious castle.’

  ‘What a formidable woman!’

  ‘Yes and I believe that the Scottish King is terrified of her,’ added Simon.

  ‘Because of her daring?’ Catherine asked as her hand rhythmically brushed the top of Simon’s thigh.

  ‘That, and the fact that he is having an affair with her sixteen-year-old niece.’

  ‘Goodness! Does Agnes know?’

  ‘Of course, why else would she bother to attend court?’

  Catherine’s hand stilled as she considered her reply. ‘I wonder what Agnes intends to do?’

  ‘I am sure you will discover that truth and in the meantime, I believe you know precisely what I am going to do to you,’ he answered as he gathered her into his arms.

  The travelling party which departed the fortress of Saint Clair-sur-Epte in the early morning of May divided at noon in the lush, plentiful forest of the Vexin. Llewellyn, his son, Trefor, Cécile’s two cats, Veronique and the soldiers Gillet had left behind struck south-east towards Bellegarde, driving a herd of choice-bred foals. Armand, Gabriel, Cécile, Margot, Minette and Jean Petit, the latter three seated in a small leather-sided conveyance, headed for the castle of Vernon.

  Upon hearing of Cécile’s quest, Armand and Gabriel brooked no argument in their inclusion to Bordeaux. On the decision of Jean Petit, however, they had argued for three nights. But Cécile remained firm. She would not be parted from her son. Thus, Margot had two choices – to either accompany Veronique and the cats to Bellegarde or remain with Minette and Jean Petit. She chose the baby.

  The boundary between the Vexin, the last direct stronghold of Paris, and the Duchy of Normandy was the river Epte, which flowed into the Seine just near Vernon. The area was renowned for the Kings of England and France to parley or sign treaties, but for Cécile and her party, the ancient town was just another rest-stop on what would be a long journey. Gillet already had a week’s head start and they’d waited a further two days in Beauvais for the Count of Flandre’s stock to arrive. Armand had whistled his appreciation through the inspection of the foals, his beaming smile affirmation that the Count had made good on his promise to Gillet.

  As the tiny herd disappeared through the trees, Armand prayed they’d make it safely to Bellegarde. Llewellyn would take no chances with the stock and the presence of the soldiers may dissuade any attacks. Besides, they were to meet with a larger crew of master craftsmen and builders outside Versailles, commissioned by the Vicomtesse and travelling under royal orders. No routiers would challenge them.

  Armand scratched the back of his neck and raised a brow in thought. Something in Cécile’s explanation of the Vicomtesse’s generosity lacked conviction. He looked over to where his childhood cousin sat upon her horse, Ruby, and frowned. And since when had she taken to wearing a wimple?

  Cécile felt Armand’s gaze rake over her and self-consciously pulled at the linen swathing her chin. She hated such clumsy attire but until the dark, purple bruise on her neck – the only outward sign she’d suffered from Jean de Berri’s attack – faded to nothing, she would do her all to hide it. The memory of that night was buried deep in some dark place within her where her husband could never coax it out. Best forgotten and, if Cécile were to be honest with herself, she did not entirely blame Jean. He had merely been another victim in her mother’s game of ‘hide the daughter.’ She shuddered away such untimely thoughts and spurred Ruby forward into Panache’s path.

  ‘Must we linger? This forest gives me the creeps.’

  Armand nodded and the group headed down the trail. By the time they reached the verge, Armand had to agree with Cécile’s sentiment. There was an eerie quality to the majestic woodland. Not just in the way the sun hit the trees and cast strange, misshapen shadows but something more. With a start he realised what was missing and reined Panache to a halt.

  Cécile stopped alongside. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Listen. What do you hear?’

  Cécile cocked her head to one side. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Armand nudged his horse on. ‘Where are all the birds?’

  The uncanny feeling persisted, even when they left the forest far behind and travelled over field and down embankments. Everything was still.

  From his seat at the front of the cart, Gabriel pointed to a burned-out farm. ‘Perhaps the area suffers a lack of residents since King Edward’s attack last year.’ They rode past another field of scorched earth.

  ‘That was months ago,’ murmured Armand. ‘Look!’ They rounded a bend in the road and saw one more farm razed to the ground, a wisp of smoke rising from the blackened, smouldering wood.

  ‘Routiers?’ Gabriel closed the gap between them and drew his sword. Armand straightened the shield he’d slung at his back and freed his weapon. ‘Stay close to the wagon,’ he told Cécile. They gazed across the barren fields, bereft of even a hay stack, as far as the horizon. Nothing.

  Margot peeked from behind the leather curtain of the small dray. ‘Why do we stop?’

  Armand felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. ‘We do not!’ He kicked his horse and Gabriel followed suit, slapping the long reins against the back of his horse, for now used to pull the charette. For the next hour they rode in silence, and on the alert, but not so much as a twig snapped, save the ones they trod upon. Finally the river Epte came into view and with it, the bridge that would take them into the town. All breathed deep sighs of relief as their horses clip-clopped over the stonework, their elongated shadows changing form like shape-shifters in the early evening light. Once more Armand turned and studied the landscape behind him.

  Cécile followed his example. ‘What is it? Looking for trolls hiding under the bridge?’

  ‘No, but I’ve had a weird feeling all day that we are being followed. I felt it in the forest too.’ He shuddered. ‘Come. Let us put ourselves within the sanctuary of these walls. Today has been one of too many imaginings. If there are trolls, let them stay where they are!’

  They passed through the town gates and Cécile glanced at the wooden guard tower on the far end. It was unoccupied. Clearly they did not fear an attack from routiers – or trolls. Her gaze settled upon a basket of washing sitting on a bank where a finger of the river poked into a canal. A shirt was spread over a rock, the dark stains yet to be removed. Cécile reined in her horse. Unless … the bandits were already here. ‘Armand?’

  Margot lifted the leather curtain to see a dozen animal skulls swinging from a tree branch, their heads clanking together in the breeze. The grisly sight was followed by yet more bones, strung together and jingling in front of a cottage. Her eyes met Cécile’s.

  ‘An omen?’

  ‘Or protection?’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Look!’ Armand pointed to the far end of the village where a thick plume of black smoke rose and spiralled to the heavens.

  ‘That explains the abandoned gate then,’ harrumphed Gabriel. ‘Clearly the villagers are gathered down by the river.’ By tacit agreement they left the charette and horses behind a tree and proceeded down the street on foot. The church bell began to toll without ceasing.

  ‘Do you think routiers have taken over the town?’ asked Margot, snuggling Jean Petit beneath her cloak.

  Minette looked around, wide-eyed. ‘Perhaps we should leave now.’

  Armand and Gabri
el drew their swords. ‘If they have, then the villagers may need our help. If that be the case, you ladies take the horses and ride for the next hamlet. Le Goulet is less than two leagues north from here. We’ll meet you there.’

  The women clung to each other and nodded. Stealthily the group made its way down the hill, the sound of the tolling bell ominous.

  ‘God’s bones! What is that smell?’ Gabriel stuffed his cloak to his nostrils.

  Armand’s voice was muffled by his forearm. ‘There is only one substance I know of that burns with such an odour. Pray to God it’s not that.’ They reached the bottom of the hill and, passing through a gap in a thickly-wooded hedge, found the villagers congregated on the bank of the river, pressed together like cattle but as quiet as church mice. Upon a rickety stand was a priest, his sleeves falling back over his wiry arms as he called to his brethren.

  Behind the thickness of their veils and cloaks Cécile and her companions gasped in unison at the horror in front of them. Close to the water’s edge was a lighted pyre, the roaring flames reaching up to the sky, the heat forcing the crowd to step back now and again. The wind blew and a cloud of billowing smoke compelled the priest to quit his dais. A gap in the flame allowed a glimpse beneath to where a blackened body slumped against a pole. All the while garish creatures danced around the fiery pit screeching, their robes stripped to their waists as they repeatedly flailed themselves bloody with multi-stranded whips. The air reeked of blood and charred flesh.

  Cécile fell to her knees and retched bile.

  ‘Flagellants,’ snorted Armand, deeply concerned as he sheathed his sword and helped Cécile to her feet.

  ‘What?’ gasped Margot, tightening her hold on the bundle beneath her cloak. Jean Petit squirmed.

  Armand and Gabriel swapped glances.

  ‘What?’ demanded Margot. ‘What do you know? For the love of God tell us!’

  ‘Flagellants,’ repeated Gabriel, also sheathing his sword. ‘There are no routiers here,’ he said, his tone flat. ‘They would not dare come. And it explains the empty fields and the burned-out farmhouses. This town is playing host to “La Peste”.’