The Gilded Crown

by Catherine A. Wilson

  ‘But the baby is not Milord’s,’ burst out Minette.

  Anaïs rounded on the maid, her eyes flashing dangerously. With her lips drawn back, she leaped on Minette, her teeth and nails bared.

  Minette screamed as they fell, entangled, and Anaïs, grabbing a fistful of the maid’s hair, drove the girl’s head hard against the stone wall. Minette slumped. Anaïs was quick to her feet and, whipping out a knife from the folds at her belt, glared demonically at Margot. She crouched like a wolf about to spring.

  Gabriel appeared at the door and stamped off his boots. ‘I’m home, Margot. Good Lord!’ His glance took in Minette sprawled unconscious upon the floor and a strange woman with a blade flashing in her hands.

  From her position near the cradle, Margot turned a frightened gaze towards Gabriel, her sudden look of horror the only warning he had. It was too late. His knees buckled and he sank to the ground in a dull thud. Robiérre stood behind him, leering like a festival fool. He twirled his sword pommel to sit once more in his palm.

  Margot rushed at Anaïs, her fingers spread to gouge her attacker’s face but with a mad woman’s strength, Anaïs captured Margot’s arm and twisted it behind her back. Anaïs held her knife against Margot’s throat.

  Robiérre watched, fascinated, his own face illuminated. ‘Go on!’ he urged, his eyes glowing. ‘Do it! Do it! She’ll never let you take the baby. As soon as we ride from here, she’ll scream the hamlet down. ’

  Anaïs’ gaze locked with her brother’s and she saw his eagerness. Without a second thought, she pulled the knife across and felt it bite into the soft flesh. She heard the blood rush, first to ooze though the opening as air was sucked in, then to pour, sticky and hot, over her fingers. There was a grotesque gurgling sound but she held on tight as the woman in her arms jerked until it slowly became a dead weight. The body slid to the floor.

  Anaïs d’Arques dropped the knife and with the manner of a waking sleepwalker, wiped her hands on a nearby blanket. She shuddered, the glazed look clearing, then she tiptoed to the box of straw and lifted out the tiny, cocooned bundle.

  Cécile urged her mare to go faster. Beside her, on Panache, Armand was scowling as they galloped. On his far side rode Reynaud, the large blacksmith’s solid presence a welcome addition. And following them, such as could be spared from the Duc de Berri’s retinue, were two soldiers, swords at the ready.

  ‘There!’ Armand shouted above the noise of beating hooves. ‘Le Goulet.’

  The sleepy hamlet lay nestled in a grove of trees, a shroud of night mist hovering over the nearby river. With one accord, they pressed the horses harder.

  ‘How do we find them?’ shouted Cécile.

  ‘Knock on every door until someone identifies them,’ answered Armand. ‘They’ve been resident for a month now. Somebody will know their description.’

  ‘But what if they have moved on? I told Gabriel to give me a week to heal you. God’s bones, such arrogance, Armand. We’ve been four times that long.’

  Under the pale moonlight, she watched his features flicker with emotion, then settle into a scowl.

  ‘I would be more likely to pray they have departed. If so, Anaïs will not know where to find them.’

  ‘But then, neither shall we.’

  The group slowed to trot through the narrow streets, gazing up at the merchant signs. Armand halted outside the apothecary’s shop, the gold paint outlining the fat mortar and pestle. There was light coming from beneath the door. He dismounted and rapped loudly on the oaken boards. ‘Open up in the name of the Duc!’

  They heard some grumbling, the scraping of a stool and clanking of pots before a bolt shot across. The tiny hatch door opened and a grey-haired apparition with a long, silver beard appeared in the framework. The two soldiers crossed themselves. ‘Who is this Duc to demand anything of me at such an hour? Cannot an old man amuse himself in the small hours of night without being disturbed?’

  Armand stepped back in order that the apothecary could see him whole and unthreatening. ‘Our greatest pardon, good sir, but we are in urgent need of assistance. Know you a stranger in town since the last full moon of tall countenance and blond hair?’

  The apothecary’s eyes were reduced to slits. ‘By what manner do you know this man?’ he rasped.

  Cécile thrust herself next to Armand, barely keeping a lid on her patience. ‘Kind sir, I would have news of his whereabouts with all speed. With him are two women.’

  ‘Did the man abduct these women?’

  ‘God’s bones, no!’ said Armand. ‘He is a knight, true and loyal, and bore the women to safety from Vernon.’

  The apothecary stumbled back. ‘Vernon? You dare to come here from Vernon? That place was condemned by God. Begone!’

  Reynaud clenched his fists and one of the soldiers raised his pike and dismounted. ‘Enough! Give us admittance, old man, or by order of the Duc, we shall tear down your door!’

  ‘Please,’ beseeched Cécile. ‘God has spared us all and Vernon is in good grace. If you could just tell us, we will be on our way.’ Her voice broke. ‘The women care for my baby. Please, I just want to hold my son.’

  ‘A child?’

  The apothecary’s brows crawled together like two caterpillars on a leaf and his lips twisted.

  ‘Madame, you had better come inside but I must tell you, there was no child.’

  The interior of Odilon de l’Eure’s apothecary shop was dimly lit by the glow of candles; six flames wobbled from stubs melted onto old, cracked pottery plates. Generous bunches of sweet-smelling herbs hung from the ceiling as below a row of shiny, new pots marched confidently across the shelf. Beneath them, another line of battered and scarred vessels looked as though they had just returned from war.

  Cécile sat beside Armand at a high bench and pushed the ventilated jar of leeches to one side with a shudder.

  ‘Here.’ Odilon handed them a hot posset and Cécile sipped the sweetened, spiced milk gratefully. ‘This friend of yours with blond hair – he has a name?’

  ‘Oui, monsieur,’ replied Armand. ‘Gabriel de Beaumont de l’Oise.’

  ‘Ah, yes, that is he.’

  ‘You know him then?’ pursued Armand.

  ‘My good fellow,’ puffed Odilon as he took a stool and sat down with them. He combed his beard with patient fingers. ‘There is not a soul in Goulet who does not. He is to hang.’

  ‘Oh, my Lord!’ Cécile laid her hand against her breast. She glanced at Armand who was turning green.

  ‘What charge lies upon him?’ demanded Armand.

  Odilon cocked an eyebrow. ‘Murdering one of his female companions and injuring the other. He was found with their bodies, all covered in blood. The younger woman now lies in the home of Agnes de Boussey, unconscious and, unless she can awaken and offer proof to your friend’s innocence, he will be executed. I must tell you, Goulet’s bailiff is not a patient man.’

  ‘But what of my child?’ burst Cécile.

  Odilon gave her a sympathetic look. ‘I say to you again, Madame. There was no child.’

  In the small hours till dawn, Odilon de l’Eure supplied the men waiting outside with a bowl of hot pottage and a mug of ale. By invitation, Armand accompanied Cécile upstairs to Odilon’s private quarters where she laid on a pallet to rest. Armand sat on the room’s only stool and nursed his head. Margot was dead, Gabriel arrested and Jean Petit had never even been seen. What did it all mean?

  A shaft of sunlight beamed into the widening aperture as someone drew back the cellar trapdoor. Gabriel de Beaumont de l’Ouise blinked several times, the light piercing his pupils and setting his brain to banging around his skull again. The bump under his hair had risen to egg-size.

  ‘Get up, woman-slayer! Time to meet your maker.’ The harsh laugh ended in an abrupt fit of coughing.

  Gabriel shifted from the dirt floor, the elevation spinning his head so hard, he almost toppled. He felt as though he was tumbling from his horse at a joust, unsure which way the ground lay but expec
ting to meet it at any moment.

  ‘I said get up here!’

  Gabriel shuffled to the ladder which had been dropped through the hole. Even in his current state of mind, he had enough nous to know separating his tightly-bound feet and rope-cocooned arms the distance required to conquer the staves would be a challenge.

  He dragged himself up, slug-like, and emerged, dazzled as a new butterfly, into a semi-circle world of unwelcoming faces, among them Charles de Gaillon, the bailiff of Goulet.

  ‘My wife will give you food and drink. The priest should arrive soon to take your confession.’

  ‘You have decided already?’ protested Gabriel, shocked. ‘But what about when Minette wakens? You will know yourself to have condemned an innocent man.’

  ‘The physician says she’s in a “Devil’s” sleep and may never wake. Such a thing happened in Orléans last summer and the man died within a month. I have no intention of paying for your keep that long.’

  Gabriel saw the indecision on the bailiff’s wife’s face. Here then, lay his greatest hope. He hobbled to the table and sat, eyes cast down. As cup and plate appeared in front of him, his hand, freed from the wrist bondage and still covered in dry blood, shot out to manacle the female arm. ‘Good lady, please do not fear me. I have done nothing wrong. Will no one believe my version of events?’ He raised his face to gaze on the kindly, weathered features. ‘If you would, dear lady, inspect the bump upon my skull so you may see for yourself. It tells its own story for I could not have given myself such an injury. I was unconscious at the time of my companion’s death.’ He released her.

  The woman glanced furtively at her husband and seeing his attention was elsewhere, she slowly parted her captive’s locks. Her swift intake of breath assured Gabriel the wound looked as nasty as it felt.

  ‘What are you doing, woman?’ Charles de Gaillon strode to the table after escorting the other council members to the door. ‘You are to feed the man, not fondle him!’

  ‘Charles,’ said his wife quietly, ‘he has an injury. I do not think a man could do this to himself. Look.’

  ‘Good Lord, woman! Either woman could have hit him with something. When Monsieur de Chaignes found him, he was cradling a body in a pool of blood with the knife lying at his feet.’

  ‘No,’ protested Gabriel. ‘I did nothing wrong. Minette was already unconscious on the floor when I arrived home. There was a strange woman in the room. She had the knife. And then I was hit from behind. Why will no one hear me? What happened to the child? There was a babe.’

  ‘There was no child. We found no proof to support your theory. There was no evidence of anyone else at the cottage and if Monsieur de Chaignes had not decided to call when he did, you might have taken flight and we would not have you here now.’

  The look of satisfaction on the man’s face was undeniable. He cocked his head as a knock sounded. ‘Ah, here is your confessor now.’

  He opened the door to give entrance to the village priest who was followed by his scribe and a young local woman along with her brother. Charles de Gaillon gaped as the gap widened further to admit another man, a woman, two soldiers, a large, burly blacksmith and finally, the apothecary.

  ‘What is the meaning of all this?’

  ‘Gabriel!’

  Immense relief swept over Gabriel as he spied the visitors. ‘Armand! Cécile! God be praised twice over! Nay, a hundred times over!’

  ‘This goodly knight has come to swear for the honour of this man,’ announced the priest. ‘And upon hearing his story, we went to the Thatcher’s house. We found Mistress Anne leaving a bucket of milk in the barn. Tell Monsieur de Gaillon what you know, Anne.’

  The girl moved forward and nodded nervously to Gabriel. ‘As you know, our land adjoins the cottage and I was paid a grout a week to deliver a skinful of milk each morning to their barn. It was for the baby.’

  ‘Baby?’

  ‘Yes, a boy for whom the women were caring.’

  ‘This woman’s child,’ said the priest, indicating Cécile. ‘They have come to collect him.’

  ‘Monsieur de Gallion—’ burst the young man.

  ‘Theirn le Bois,’ acknowledged the bailiff.

  ‘My sister speaks the truth. And you should also know that a couple, a man and a woman strange to our town, rode in yesterday evening and asked me directions to the Thatcher’s cottage. I told them how to reach it.’

  ‘Did they say what they wanted?’

  Theirn le Bois crumpled his hat in his hands and staring at his boots, shook his head.

  At the table, the clergy scribe’s quill was scratching the parchment rapidly. His inkpot wobbled precariously every time he dipped.

  Efficiently, Armand outlined their situation for the bailiff.

  ‘So this sister and brother have abducted your son, Madame?’ clarified Charles. ‘And in doing so, killed your friend.’

  ‘Yes.’ At Marie de Gaillon’s invitation, Cécile and Armand had joined Gabriel at the table where they were furnished with mugs of hot cinnamon mead. Upon hearing further testimonies, the ropes binding Gabriel’s legs and arms were released. He was free to fly.

  ‘And er, your companion’s er, body?’ asked the priest.

  Armand took Cécile’s hand gently. ‘I think we should let Margot rest in peace here – at least for now. We have no clue how long we’ll be riding or even where we go.’

  Mutely, Cécile nodded.

  The priest agreed. ‘Then I will have the body prepared and we shall hold a mass for her soul this afternoon. She is welcome to lay at rest among our fold. What about your maid?’

  There was a knock at the door and Marie de Gaillon admitted the kitchen servant of Agnes de Boussey. She peeked at her audience, curtseyed and spoke timidly but for those listening, it was as though she carried the voice of God.

  ‘I am sent by my Mistress to tell you your woman is waking.’

  The interior of the church was still cool, the grey stones yet to absorb the heat from the blaring May sun. Spring was ending and if the soaring temperatures were a warning, the forthcoming summer would blister skin and swell limbs without mercy.

  Cécile knelt before the dais where Margot’s body was laid out. Beneath the veil covering the corpse a wide strip of cloth was bound around the woman’s throat, her eyes closed in eternal sleep. Cécile brushed away her tears and rested her head in her hands but terrifying thoughts invaded and the prayers stilled upon her lips. Margot had died protecting her son but where was Jean Petit? Why had Anaïs taken him? Cécile’s pulse sped up as she contemplated the most obvious answer. Anaïs meant to deliver the child to his father, Edward, Prince of Wales, and with Gillet ensconced in the new English court in Bordeaux, it could have terrifying ramifications. Consequences for Catherine too, for when Edward realised how she had deceived him, his wrath would know no boundaries. Scotland would not protect her.

  A procession entered the church headed by the priest garbed in a black robe and swinging his thurible. Trailing him was the lead acolyte, carrying a huge gold cross, and behind him, holding lit beeswax candles and softly singing, followed several choirboys. Cécile moved from in front of the dais to next to Armand and Gabriel. She bent her head solemnly for the requiem mass. It was time to say her last goodbye to her friend.

  Later that evening, in the home of Agnes de Boussey, seated around Minette’s bedside, they learned the reason for the boy’s abduction. Cécile’s maid, head swathed in a linen bandage, sat amid a mountain of pillows, fully-conscious.

  ‘Scotland!’ echoed Armand and Cécile at the revelation of the abductor’s destination.

  Minette peered from under wet lashes, looking unsure of how best to proceed.

  ‘Tell us, Minette. Hold nothing back for the fate of my son is at stake,’ encouraged Cécile.

  Minette’s cheeks grew pink. ‘She said your husband, Milady, was in fact, her husband and father to her child.’ Her colour deepened. ‘She attacked me when I repudiated it.’

  ‘Go on,�
�� urged Armand, swapping glances with Cécile and Gabriel.

  ‘She knows the Lady Wexford has him and she takes Jean Petit to trade for her own son.’ There was a collection of gasps. ‘She knows Milady’s sister cannot abandon the son of a prince.’ Minette dropped her head and her voice. ‘Once this woman has her own child, she is convinced she will win back the love of Monsieur d’Albret.’

  ‘Gillet?’ echoed Cécile in disbelief. ‘She trades my son to capture my husband’s affection?’ She collapsed onto the end of the bed. ‘Is this woman to covet everything I have?’

  Agnes de Boussey appeared at the door, smoothing a coverlet over her arm as two servants carried in a wooden pallet and bags filled with hay. ‘I thought the Madame would like to stay close to her maid and, if you gentlemen have no complaint, I’ll see to a bedroll in the hayloft for each of you. Your soldiers may use the barn.’ She waved away their thanks. ‘It is an honour to serve you. Now, if you have a mind, there are platters laid upon the table below.’ She curtseyed and was gone.

  Cécile left Minette to rest and made her way down the tiny stairs, thankful for the opportunity to privately discuss what she had heard with Armand and Gabriel. She sat at the planked table with a weary sigh and poked the escaping wisps of her short hair back under her veil. Her eyes smarted. They felt dry and gritty now that her weeping was done. Her heart felt so heavy. Her son was missing; her husband leagues away. Margot was dead. Cécile felt empty inside, weary from fighting against impossible odds and tired of fearing a woman she barely knew just because she had fallen in love with Ghillebert d’Albret.

  Gabriel nudged Armand and nodded in Cécile’s direction.

  Armand slid next to her and took her hand. ‘Chérie,’ he crooned. ‘My poor, sweet Angelique. First you give up your husband for the good of France, then your son is snatched while you play nursemaid to me. You have faced the horrors of plague, the degradation of a prison cell and looked death squarely in the face tied to a stake.’ He lifted her chin. ‘You have borne so much of late and you have done it all with a warrior’s strength and courage. But fear not, my love, I shall see both husband and son are returned to your arms.