The Gilded Crown

by Catherine A. Wilson

  ‘It will smell a lot worse when I cut it,’ said Reynaud. ‘But for now, we wait.’

  ‘For what?’ Cécile sat beside Reynaud and covered her nose with her wimple.

  Reynaud looked at her with a sheepish mien. ‘My mistress,’ he answered. ‘Forgive me but she has offered to help and since it was all I could do to calm her when we did not leave, I allowed her request. She will bring more sheets. We will need them.’

  ‘Why would she offer to help?’

  Reynaud shrugged. ‘She is still trying to locate her brother. I think she hopes if she helps another, God will grant her mercy.

  Armand groaned and his arms strained against the ties.

  ‘What chance does he have, Reynaud?’ asked Cécile, her gaze swallowing her cousin whole as though it would be her last. Her tone conveyed her spent energy too well, her feeling of hopelessness.

  Reynaud studied Cécile’s pale face, the dark smudges beneath her eyes, the glistening lashes, the pursing of her lips. Tears were not far away. He slipped his arm around her. ‘He is in God’s hands, Milady, as are we all. We should never fear that.’ Silently he pressed a kiss to her hair, sharing a moment of hope. Above Cécile’s veil a movement caught his eye. ‘Adèle!’

  The young woman stood stock-still in the doorway. Her gaze twitched from Reynaud to Cécile and back several times, her mouth pressing into a tight line. ‘You asked me to bring these,’ she said and held out a bundle of sheets.

  Reynaud collected the linens and introduced the women to one another. Cécile and Adèle nodded politely, the latter tiptoeing to the bed to bend over the patient. Cécile had the oddest impression of knowing the woman but she was bereft of recall. Reynaud’s mistress was immaculate in a fresh homespun gown, a clean cap, and healthy, glowing cheeks and for the first time in days, Cécile realised how ill-kept she must appear.

  Adèle flashed her a look, the fire in her green eyes blazing an ancient, female warning.

  Understanding flooded through Cécile and she realised how it must have appeared upon Adèle’s entrance. She stood abruptly, anxious to put time and distance between them. ‘Excuse me, I must check on the soup.’ Armand’s lids fluttered open but his pupils were constricted. ‘Céci?’ The droplets across his forehead spilled down to his neck. Cécile rinsed out the cloth and laid it against his skin. He blinked, his gaze going from Cécile to Adèle and back, his open mouth working furiously but no noise emitting. His body stiffened in a sudden spasm of pain. He let out a scream that froze Cécile’s blood.

  ‘It is time,’ said Reynaud, taking a blade from the flame. ‘His fever is too high. Get me a sheet.’

  For the next hour Cécile cajoled, soothed, cried and even screamed once herself as Reynaud attacked Armand’s skin with the knife. Armand thrashed wildly against his bonds until the two women had to bodily hold him down while Reynaud cut away the last of the putrid flesh. The stench was unlike anything Cécile had ever smelled as blood and pus spewed from the wound. The sheets were torn into cloths and filled with the purulence.

  ‘Place them directly into the fire and do not get any on yourselves,’ warned Reynaud, whose own forehead was saturated with sweat. Satisfied at last, he liberally spread a thick paste and bound the remaining strips of cloth around Armand’s torso. Armand had blissfully passed out. ‘Go wash up,’ Reynaud instructed Cécile and numbly, she stumbled to the door.

  Once outside, she scrubbed her arms in the pail of water until she threatened to remove her own skin. Then she vomited onto the grass and fell upon the garden bench, exhausted. ‘Heavenly Father,’ she gasped, ‘please let Armand heal. Do not take him from me yet.’ She saw Adèle moving in the kitchen and spared a thought for the girl. She had performed admirably, assisting Reynaud at every turn, her pretty chiselled face set in stone. In the distance the tolling of the bell could be heard. The cart was making its nightly rounds.

  ‘Bring out your dead.’

  Cécile glanced skywards again. ‘And please let Adèle find her brother alive.’

  Cécile refreshed the water in the wooden bucket and finding a shadowed corner, stripped to the waist. She unwound the wrapping from her breasts; her milk had almost ceased to flow now. Dipping the cloth into the cool water, she washed her skin and then, with breath held, she probed the flesh in and around her armpits searching for any sign that she had become infected. Slowly she released her breath. God was still merciful.

  ‘Well?’ Adèle stood beside her. The soles of the girl’s shoes must have been padded with wool.

  ‘I’m clean,’ replied Cécile.

  Adèle was staring at her breasts.

  ‘I … my son … I sent him from this village. I was still nursing him.’

  ‘You must miss him dearly then.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘As would any mother miss her child. And your husband?’ Adèle tossed her head toward the kitchen. ‘Reynaud told me Armand was your cousin.’

  ‘My husband is not with me. I was on my way to meet him when we stopped in this village.’ The girl’s gaze had fallen again to Cécile’s breasts and feeling uncomfortable with the scrutiny, Cécile squeezed out the linen binding and wound it around herself.

  ‘Here, let me assist you.’ Adèle took up the wadding, her hand gently cupping Cécile’s breast to properly secure the end of the wrap. ‘You must miss him too. Even in summer, a bed is cold at night when one is alone.’

  It may have been Adèle’s soft touch at her breast coupled with the image of Gillet in her mind’s eye but Cécile felt a rush of yearning. Her legs almost buckled.

  ‘Are you sure you are well?’ Adèle frowned as she tied off the binding.

  ‘No … yes! I was … I … I just miss my husband.’ Adèle’s profile appeared in front and Cécile marvelled at the girl’s magnificent bone structure. The feeling of familiarity struck anew but the only green eyes Cécile could recall were those of Gywnedd’s, the Welsh witch in Kent. The thought made her shudder.

  ‘The bands are still wet and cold against your skin,’ observed Adèle, helping Cécile into the bodice of her gown. A silver medal fell against Adèle’s fingers and she picked it up curiously. ‘You have scratched your necklace,’ she stated flatly.

  Cécile’s smile was wide. ‘Yes, Gillet was playing the fool one night and he … well … never mind.’ She blushed. ‘Suffice to say St Gilles will wear a bump on his head for all time.’

  Adèle gripped the medal tightly; the links strained and then loosened and, for a moment, Cécile thought the girl was going to tug it off. Her expression was covetous and from the dark corridors of Cécile’s mind, a hazy memory emerged, something familiar. An image of a woman … alone in a wood, long fingers with dirty nails.

  ‘Milady! Come quickly!’ Reynaud’s feet crunched upon the stone path. ‘The Seigneur is awake and asking for you.’

  Cécile stared at Armand with a new fear. He’d fallen back into unconsciousness. ‘He’s so pale.’

  ‘At least he is not wheezing anymore,’ observed Reynaud from his position at the end of the pallet. ‘If the plague was in his lungs, as it is with some, there would be no chance.’

  ‘And what chance does he have now? He looks terrible!’

  ‘Cling to your hope as a miser hoards his gold, Milady,’ advised Renaud. ‘The bleeding of his wound has slowed so God may answer you yet. First though, Monsieur d’Albret must make it through this night. The Angel of death often visits in the small hours before dawn, especially after surgery.’

  Cécile slid the misericord from its pouch. ‘Then he will have to deal with me first.’

  Cécile knelt in prayer by Armand’s side, her hand firmly grasping his. Occasionally she would rinse a cloth and cool his brow, his earlier paleness having given way to a heated flush. Now and again he would groan loudly, his eyelids fluttering as though trying to wake from some terrible dream and once, Cécile was so convinced he was in the grip of a battle for his mortal soul, she swished the small dagger through the air above his
head.

  Reynaud slept upon the rushes in front of the fireplace, snoring lightly. Adèle was curled up on the other pallet.

  The candle spluttered in its holder, burning away the hours. The glow dimmed then brightened again as the wick found more wax.

  ‘Céci?’ Armand’s hand slid over the blanket towards her.

  ‘Armand? How do you feel?’ Cécile rubbed her eyes, instantly awake.

  ‘I’m dying, sweetheart. I want … you to let … me go.’

  Cécile blinked away her tears. ‘No,’ she whispered vehemently, ‘I cannot do that. Look at me, Armand.’ His cerulean gaze fell upon her and she choked back a sob. Taking the candle from the small table, she sat it upon the bed and raised his hand in hers. ‘Do you remember? In my papa’s barn …’ Her voice caught and she showed him the misericord. ‘We cut our thumbs together, you and me. I still have my scar.’ She searched the soldier-worn grooves in his skin until she found the mark. ‘And so do you.’ Tears brimmed and spilled over her lashes.

  Armand reached up to catch one, his movement jaded.

  She caught his hand and pressed his thumb against hers above the flame. ‘Forever together, always and ever.’

  He gave a faint smile. ‘It would not be the first time you’ve brought me back from the edge of death. When will you admit defeat?’

  ‘Never!’ Relentless, she held the candle and repeated their vow over and over, ‘Forever together, always and ever,’ until the cadence became a desperate plea.

  Armand’s eyes fluttered closed. ‘So … damned … tired.’

  ‘Then you sleep now and I shall see you in the morn when you wake. Do you hear me, Armand-Amanieu d’Albret?’ Cécile’s voice shook. ‘In the morning, when you wake.’

  ‘I love you, Céc,’ whispered Armand, his words exhaled on a long sigh.

  Cécile stared at the smooth planes of his face until they smudged out of focus, the endless tears rolling down her cheeks. She buried her face into the blanket and sobbed, her shoulders heaving.

  The market square of Vernon was deserted. On any normal day it would be packed with traders, the yelling of wares competing with the squawking of chickens or some exotic caged birds shipped from the East, sold from the port. Stray dogs would sniff for scraps at the hems of wealthy merchant wives who sought new cloths for chemises and gowns. But today, it was empty and the days were anything but normal.

  Cécile glanced over her shoulder furtively and grasped her wicker basket tighter. Her precious daily haul consisted of a bunch of yarrow and one cabbage, taken from an unknown, unwatched garden, its accompanying cottage marked as damned by the large holy cross painted on its door. The crosses had begun as a plea to Heaven to look down upon the residents with favour but now had become a symbol of the infected. She’d listened outside the window first, her head covered with a thick veil but she could not hear any movement within. Another vegetable patch had yielded a handful of carrots, barely ready to face the sunlight but if she left them one more day, a hand other than hers would surely pick them. She scurried back towards her own house, considering the half onion of yesterday. Together in a pot, the vegetables would at least make some semblance of a broth, meat a luxury long gone. The yarrow she would brew into a tisane to keep away the sickness and evil.

  The sun beat down though it was only early in the day and when she looked to the west she saw the tell-tale plume of black smoke. More bodies were being burned – the previous night’s haul. She pulled her veil closer and trod faster. How much longer would it last? It felt as though she’d been here a lifetime. She wondered if Gabriel and the others were still at Le Goulet or had the hamlet also fallen victim to God’s wrath? Perhaps Gabriel and the women had moved on and were even now on their way to catch up with Gillet. For the first time in weeks Cécile mused upon the mission given her at Gisors. It seemed like so long ago. An image of Gillet sprang into her head, followed quickly by one of her son and it felt as though someone punched her in the middle. She stopped in her tracks to catch her breath. She was so tired of death. So tired of sickness.

  Reynaud told her the nightly rounds of the guards had ceased. More than half the population in the village had died and since there were no occupants left at the Hôtel Dieu, access to the tunnels beneath would be child’s play. As soon as Armand regained his strength, they would make for Goulet.

  Cécile stepped inside the coolness of the cottage to find her last thought materialised in flesh and blood in front of her, out of bed for the first time.

  ‘You are looking better today,’ she remarked, placing the basket upon the stone shelf which formed part of the kitchen sink. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘As helpless as a baby,’ answered Armand. He rubbed his jaw. ‘And in desperate need of a shave. Think yourself up to the task?’

  ‘Think you can trust me?’ she quipped, lifting out the cabbage. ‘Last time you howled like a banshee.’ She squealed as Armand caught her around the waist.

  ‘Who’s howling now? Last time you nearly cut my throat! Mayhap I should attend myself.’ He pulled her into his arms and planted a kiss upon her forehead. ‘How can I ever thank you, sweetheart?’

  Cécile stared up at him, lovingly. ‘By continuing to improve so that we may leave here. Armand, I miss Gillet and my son more than you can imagine.’

  ‘Of course, you do, sweetheart. I have already asked Reynaud to make our arrangements.’

  Cécile dropped the kitchen knife and turned to stare. ‘We leave soon?’

  ‘Yes. Tomorrow night. I might be as weak as a kitten but I can hold onto a set of reins. We make for Goulet where I can rest more. The important thing is to re-unite you with your son.’

  ‘Oh, Armand!’ She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him hard.

  Early the following morning Cécile embarked upon her last emergency rations errand. Her choices would be even more limited since the food would end up submerged during their escape but her subsequent haul of three eggs from a neglected hutch delighted her. She could boil them. No doubt the poor mother hen had met with a similar fate. Cécile had wandered closer to the river, keen to catch a glimpse of the watery path to freedom, and thus she’d discovered abandoned cottages she had not previously explored. Not wishing to be out long, she hurried back up the hill and across the still deserted village square when a small group of figures detached itself from the shadows and came towards her. At the head of it Cécile recognised Adèle, whom she had not seen since Armand’s operation. With a sinking feeling, she realised as they drew closer, one of Adèle’s companions was Father Jacques.

  ‘There she is! I told you, gathering her supplies by the light of dawn.’ Adèle pointed her finger accusingly. ‘She brought her cousin back from death with her incantations. I watched her as she chanted over a lighted candle in the middle of the night. She said she would make a deal to save her cousin. She has cast her evil upon us all! Heretic! Heretic!’

  ‘Adèle!’ gasped Cécile. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Take her,’ ordered the priest and the two accompanying guards grabbed Cécile’s arms. Her basket fell; the eggs smashed into a puddle of yolk and the small cabbage rolled along the cobblestones like a severed head. ‘But I have done nothing!’

  Father Jacques planted himself squarely in front of Cécile. ‘Are you not the same woman who was recently a guest at Castle Gisors?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘The same woman,’ his voice rose ominously, ‘who bewitched the Duc? Do not deny this! He came to me the very next morning. He swore you seduced him and then, when he would not comply with your demands, you set your familiar upon him. I saw the scratches, Madame. Deep cuts slashed into his skin that could not have come from anything of this earth. It was clearly the work of the Devil!’

  Panic gripped Cécile and her heart pounded. She struggled against the guards but they held her fast. ‘No! That is not true. Adèle! Help me!’ She turned to the grinning girl. Beside her was a young man, wearing a breastplate and ca
rrying a sword. His face was familiar and a name snapped to Cécile’s lips. ‘Robiérre d’Arques? The squire from the Arras tourney?’

  ‘Yes.’ Adèle smirked and hooked her arm within the man’s. ‘I found my brother.’

  ‘Take this heretic to the cells,’ ordered the priest. ‘At last we have rooted out the source of evil that taints this village!’

  The men tugged her but Cécile was no longer listening to the cleric. Cogs and wheels within her brain were turning, gnashing against one another to slowly align, the parts meshing, nodes methodically slotting into spaces in an ordered process. An image appeared of Adèle in the woods at Arras, emerald eyes inspecting the St Gilles medal, the face demonic when Cécile mentioned her husband was nearby and Gillet, in the tent that night. His voice echoed across time, ‘No, but I know his sister,’ and blushing like a maiden when she’d asked him if he’d ever lain with this woman. Older memories surfaced with precision; a letter arriving from Catherine, shards piercing Cécile’s heart when she read that Gillet had married in England. Her eyes widened, her pupils large with disbelief.

  Adèle watched closely and, recognising the moment of enlightenment, giggled with elation. Her expression was one of victory. ‘I once told Gillet I would see you burn. Pity your sister is not here to join you.’

  Within the mechanism of Cécile’s mind, the last shaft pin shot into place and released the knowledge she sought. She remembered where she had heard the name.

  ‘D’Arques!’ she gasped, her gaze flicking to the brother and back to Adèle. ‘God help me! Anaïs d’Arques!’