The Gilded Crown

by Catherine A. Wilson

  Gabriel rolled his eyes. ‘Some coin? Madame, you had enough to buy and feed an army hidden in your skirts. Jesu! Just as well no one had an inkling or we would have landed in the bottom of a ditch with our throats slit.’

  Cécile giggled and draped a lacy veil over her face. ‘But, gentle knight, surely you know I had no conception of its worth?’ Her expression suggested otherwise.

  ‘I heard about Gillet’s lessons,’ chortled Gabriel. ‘He said once tutored, you were as astute as a Scotsman mustering supplies for a campaign.’

  Cécile looked into the weather-tanned face, the deepening crinkles around Gabriel’s eyes, the hollow cheeks and dark rings. They had ridden hard to make Bordeaux as quickly as possible but he had pushed himself the hardest, at various times taking her or Minette upon his horse when they could go no further. She rested her hand on his knee. ‘I hope you ordered some garments for yourself while you were about it.’

  ‘Me?’ He grinned cheekily. ‘As it happens, Madame, I did. Although I have no intention of being presented at this court,’ he smelled the sleeve of his shirt, ‘I must still find a way to live with myself.’

  Cécile lowered the veil and sighed. ‘I think I have left a collection of clothes all around France by now. I should have thought to tell Duc de Berri to redirect my belongings at the palace to Bellegarde.’ She looked up and pulled a face. ‘Although, knowing of the Duc’s generosity, they have probably long ago been distributed amongst the poor.’

  ‘Then it is only your clothing from Paris which suffers such indignity, milady. Your robes from Arras, ergo Chilham, are en route to Bellegarde as we speak. Gillet made the arrangements before we left.’ He looked around the tiny chamber. ‘You will not stay here long either. The steward at court shall see you have suitable rooms at Blanquefort and, as soon as business is concluded, we may all go home.’

  Cécile grasped Gabriel’s hand and squeezed it. ‘You have been a tower of strength these past weeks, Gabriel. I know not how I should have pulled through without you.’

  Gabriel bowed his head. ‘It has been my honour, Madame, to escort the wife of my companion-in-arms to him.’ He returned the pressure on her hand. ‘Would that I could have done more for your son. I am so sorry.’

  ‘No, Gabriel, no.’ Cécile reached out to cup his cheek, drinking in the soft blue-green warmth of his gaze. ‘Do not berate yourself for events out of your hands. You are in no way to blame for Anaïs and I thank you from the bottom of my soul for what you have done for all of us. Margot and Minette would never have made it out of Vernon were it not for you.’

  Gabriel lifted her hand and gently kissed her fingers, his voice husky. ‘Still, would that I could have done more.’

  Cécile’s heart melted. ‘How is it you have no one special by your side?’

  Gabriel smiled, the tell-tale dimples appearing. ‘Since our first meeting, fair lady, I have had precious little spare time.’

  Cécile felt a new ambition excite her. It swirled through her blood, tingling her skin, making her feel more alive. ‘Then, Sir Gabriel de Beaumont de l’Oise, I shall scour this court for you. I will make it my duty to find you a bride.’

  Gabriel burst out laughing. ‘Marry a daughter whose father lives under English rule? I think not, Cécile de Bellegarde. Let us wait until we return to the court in Paris then you may shoot Cupid’s arrows to your heart’s content. And now, if you will excuse me, I am currently more suited to the sties of pigs than any court of princes. By your leave, I shall take myself down to the bathhouse.’ He kissed her hand again and then let it go. ‘Do not fret for me, Cécile. I may not be as fortunate as Gillet but neither can I cry loneliness. And I hear there are many available beauties to be found in Bordeaux.’ With a wink, he bowed to them and vacated the chamber.

  The gaze of both women followed him through the doorway, each privy to their own thoughts and quiet sighs.

  One week after their arrival in Bordeaux, Cécile stood at the base of the steps leading into Blanquefort castle. She inhaled a deep breath to steady herself. Her heart beat rapidly, both with the excitement of finally seeing Gillet and with trepidation for his reaction to her unexpected appearance. The page boy stood at the entrance and glared at the unescorted woman. His foot began to tap. He was waiting to take her name to the Master of Ceremony. Another couple jostled past to engage the lad and Cécile took a moment to calm herself. With trembling hands she brushed away imaginary specks from the midnight-blue velvet of her low-cut gown. Her throat was adorned by a string of pearls upon which one brilliant sapphire hovered tantalisingly above her breasts, her cleavage delicately enhanced by the daring scoop of the gold embroidered neckline. The fine cut of cloth clung to her bodice and hips, accentuating her svelte figure, before flaring into an abundant skirt. Such bold attire was entirely due to her own mother, Joan, Fair maid of Kent, whose latest whim set the standards throughout the English courts. And here, in Bordeaux, this new court was eager to please as it prepared itself for the imminent arrival of the heir-apparent. Cécile brushed nervously at her head, her shorter hair cleverly entwined into false pieces that were plaited on either side in ‘rams-horns’ and contained within gold cauls. The fillet was adorned with tiny sapphires and pearls across the brow, the headdress complete with a frothy veil joined under her chin. She was a picture of beauty but she had needed no reflection in polished silver to know. Gabriel’s eyes and low whistle had spoken volumes.

  ‘Madame?’ The page moved to her side and offered his arm. ‘Your name, if you please?’

  ‘’Tis Mademoiselle … Holland,’ muttered Cécile.

  ‘Your pardon, mademoiselle. I cannot hear you.’ His tone held a touch of insolence and a rush of pride flowed through Cécile’s veins instilling her old confidence.

  ‘Cécile Holland,’ she answered louder, ‘daughter of the late Thomas Holland, Earl of Kent.’

  The boy stopped in his tracks and stared hard. ‘Holland,’ he repeated. ‘Really?’ With impudence he looked her up and down.

  A spark of indignation lit Cécile’s blue eyes until they glowed as bright as the sapphires she wore … and as cold. Holland, Armagnac, Albret, in truth she could take her pick of aristocratic name. She straightened her back and glanced at him frostily. ‘I said “Holland”, did I not? Are your ears in need of cleaning, boy? If so, be off to the latrines and send me someone who can pay attention. Your imbecilic nature is as offensive as your incompetent countenance!’

  The boy paled and stiffened his arm formally. ‘Your pardon, mademoiselle. I … I had not been told you were attending.’

  ‘And who are you to know the ins and outs of every move?’ retorted Cécile, peering at him. ‘Do your duty and see me from these steps. I grow colder by the minute.’

  The page did not question the validity of her last statement, given the balmy conditions of the evening, but prudently escorted her within, his lips pressed tight.

  Inside the noisy hall, Arnaud-Amanieu d’Albret gave a hearty guffaw and shook his finger at the pretty blonde attached to his arm. Beside him, Gillet d’Albret, dressed in a dark green doublet and black silk chausses, smiled affably. The woman at his side slid closer and possessively hooked her fingers around his elbow. Arnaud moved to whisper in his cousin’s ear, nodding at Gillet’s escort.

  ‘Her companion says she’s already under your spell. Another goblet of wine and she’ll gladly be under you. But I am thinking she’ll have to lure you first. What is wrong, cousin? You do not enjoy yourself?’

  Gillet looked around the hall. ‘’Tis nothing, Arn. I think I have been away from court too long. All this jabbering hurts my ears and I prefer the scent of fresh grass in open fields.’

  Arn laughed and slapped his cousin’s back lightly. ‘You have slept beneath the stars for too many nights, my friend. Come, put aside your peasant instincts and enjoy whilst you may. Ah, here is another introduction. Maybe this beauty can tempt you. Christ’s nails! Forget what I just said. I’m tempted myself!’

 
; The Master of Ceremony thumped his staff upon the wooden boards amid the noisy chatter and announced loudly. ‘The court introduces the Lady Cécile Holland, daughter of the late Sir Thomas Holland, Earl of Kent and Lady Joan Holland, beloved friend to the Prince of Wales.’

  There was instantly a hush, a creaking of necks and the turning of heads from every corner of the room.

  Cécile floated to the man’s side, her gape whisking over the sea of figures before alighting on two. For a moment she was confused as she looked upon twin heads of identical black hair but she soon recognised the face she hunted. What she saw made her stomach drown in its own acid. Gillet, along with the others, stared, open-mouthed but it was the verity he had a red-headed woman hanging off his arm which filled Cécile with spite. She caught her husband’s gawk but she saw no shame. Instead, there burned a fiery anger.

  ‘Lord! But it cannot be true! And yet I know it to be true. Mademoiselle, you are the image of your mother and your hair is the colour of your father. Sir Thomas Beauchamp, fair lady, at your service.’ The middle-aged man bowed.

  ‘Thomas!’ A woman, gently greying with age, rushed to his side. ‘Can it be possible, Thomas? This is a daughter of Holland? Oh, the travesty of having no proper formal introduction into court. But this is terrible!’

  Sir Thomas bid his wife to calm herself. He ran his fingers through an immaculately groomed beard. ‘Well, I must say, Katherine, you were only saying how you wished for some excitement tonight. I think, my dear, your prayers might have been heard. Lady Holland, may I introduce my wife, Katherine Mortimer.’

  Cécile dipped in a curtsey. ‘Sir Thomas, Lady Katherine, it is my pleasure.’

  ‘Isn’t this remarkable?’ gushed Katherine. ‘I was only telling Thomas tonight that Elizabeth – she’s my former sister-by-marriage to my brother, Edmund Mortimer, my darling brother’s passed now, and yes, before you say a word, our father was the infamous Roger Mortimer,’ she paused as her husband rolled his eyes, ‘that Elizabeth was saying Humphrey, that’s her son by her second husband, William de Bohan, may his soul also rest in peace, was only just saying that Lord Holland visited Chilham just before Yuletide. Imagine that! And here you are, his daughter, in the flesh. But dear, oh dear, what a terrible thing for you to have to present yourself at court. Did you not know of anyone who could introduce you?’ She did not pause for an answer. ‘No, I suppose not. The story goes you have only just left a nunnery. Silly me, but I am so glad you are here.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Thomas, we really must find Lady Holland an escort for the evening. She cannot be allowed to wander the corridors of Blanquefort upon her own.’

  Sir Thomas’s harrumphing left no doubt that he held little notion Cécile would be on her own for long.

  ‘But who, my dear? Our friends are all too old.’

  A voice at Cécile’s ear made her jump. ‘May I offer myself as escort, Lady Katherine?’ Gillet bowed regally. ‘As it happens, I am known to the demoiselle – in fact, she was placed in my care, for a time, by Lord Holland himself.’

  ‘Yes! Of course! How simply perfect,’ shrilled Katherine. ‘I recall now Humphrey mentioned your name, Lord d’Albret. How extremely fortunate you are here with us tonight.’

  Cécile swept into another curtsey, her tone venomous. ‘Lord d’Albret, you are too kind but I would not wish to inconvenience you. Were you not otherwise engaged? It appeared so upon my entry.’

  Gillet tilted his head. ‘Then you read far too much into nothing, mademoiselle. I have no dalliance at this court, save for what you grant me.’ He bowed again.

  A group of men wandered over to Sir Thomas and Gillet was obliged to step back.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ announced Thomas, ‘Lady Holland, may I introduce to you some companions of mine, Sir Baldwin Bereford, Sir Bartholomew Berghersh, and Sir Richard Cobham. Sadly both Sir Baldwin and Sir Richard are to take their leave of us early next week, recalled to parliament in London, though I suspect Baldwin will not stop there.’

  The men bowed respectfully, the latter rather stiffly, his age exceeding most.

  ‘I daresay not,’ said Sir Baldwin. ‘Rumour has it I am to be Ireland bound.’ He beamed at Cécile.

  ‘Then I wish you both a fortuitous and safe journey, gentlemen.’ She returned the knight’s smile but hers faded as she watched their horrified expressions.

  ‘Good Lord! Forgive me, mademoiselle, but what accent is that? I cannot believe they teach it in a convent.’

  Cécile glanced at Gillet. He raised one brow but his lips remained firmly closed. Reading his gesture of defiance, Cécile lifted her chin, her mind racing. In sultry voice, she countered. ‘It came not from the convent, monsieur, but rather a studious tutor, master in the art of the French tongue. My father felt it would be appropriate to have an English daughter who was fluent in the Parisian language.’ She tilted her head coquettishly. ‘I also speak Languedoc. It was for when our King Edward sat upon the French throne. I was to be a peace offering, a consolation for wounded pride.’ The outcry that followed almost made Cécile giggle.

  ‘Good Heavens! One of our best offered to the French in marriage? Deplorable!’

  ‘Unspeakable! Is this what happens to our fair flowers?’

  ‘Bloody outrageous! We do all the fighting and for what? To hand over our women?’

  ‘Ah, Sir William,’ interrupted Thomas Beauchamp. ‘Lady Holland, allow me to introduce Sir William Felton of Northumberland. He is now seneschal of Poitou and the Limousin. He works in acquisitions of castles as surety for the continuation of payment of France’s ransom. He is a skilled arbiter, serving in two hearings both last year in Breton, and the year before in Gourney-en-Bray. His brother, Lord Thomas Felton, is the steward to the Prince’s household and on loan to us for the setting up of this court. Albret, see to it that Felton is made aware of Lady Holland and have him send for her belongings.’

  Gillet inclined his head. ‘As you wish, Sir Thomas.’

  Lady Katherine glanced at the young man’s sour face and tugged on her husband’s arm. ‘Thomas, enough monopolising Lady Holland. Let the young ones go have some fun.’

  Thomas clapped his hand upon Gillet’s shoulder. ‘My wife can prattle volumes in rusty iron but every now and again her words are pure gold. Go, lad. Introduce Lady Holland around and enjoy the rest of your evening.’

  Withdrawing from the group, Gillet clamped his hand in a firm grip at his wife’s elbow and whispered tightly, ‘For the love of Christ, what in God’s name propelled you into this lion’s den?’

  Cécile squirmed in his grasp. ‘Gillet, you are hurting me!’

  Finding a vacant alcove, he guided her within, able to speak without being heard but still in plain sight. ‘My name here is Ghillebert, and since we’re on names, shouldn’t you be ‘Cecily Holland?’

  Cécile sniffed and her nose pointed skyward. ‘Grant me some decorum. I’ll never be a “Cecily!”’

  ‘For the love of God, make me understand quickly, Cécile, for I want nothing more than to shake some sense into your bones right now! Do you have any idea what a nest of vipers this court is?’

  Recovering her dignity, Cécile straightened her sleeve from where her husband’s clenched grip had fallen. ‘I thought I handled myself quite well just a moment ago, no thanks to you.’

  Gillet’s eyes blazed. ‘Really? Then perhaps I should just let you loose so you can charm your way around the hall with your country southern accent. Firstly, we must find Lord Felton so that you can be properly ensconced within these walls. There is no escape for you now. Then, at first opportunity, he will send a dispatch to London to inform the Prince of the latest addition to his court. Meanwhile, try to avoid the claws of Lady Katherine’s pseudo-nephew, Humphrey de Bohan, related only by her brother’s first wife but apparently the two are closely bound. I have it on good authority Bohun is still slighted at losing one Andalusian stallion in an auction in Chilham. He is an immature, trifling man who cannot concede to a woman! Be assured, lady, he
will seek you out. And, if you can go unnoticed by Sir Stephen Cossington and, God forbid, the King’s messenger, Sir Roger Cotesford, you will need a miracle to avoid Sir John de Grailly, cousin to Gaston de Foix! I can only pray Grailly does not have his wife here at court. I presume you know my cousin and Armand’s sister, Rose? I have no idea why you should present yourself in the guise of Holland but one word from her, fair or foul, and your Armagnac roots will be exposed.’

  Cécile’s hand covered her mouth in horror at Gillet’s words and though she knew he would not be happy at her sudden appearance, she had not counted on being greeted with lashings of his temper the moment she stepped over the threshold. With all she had endured the last two months, tears began to well.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ hissed Gillet. He took her arm to lead her outside but was impeded by an eager suitor.

  ‘It would seem you have made the young lady cry, Lord d’Albret.’ The solicitous man bowed stiffly.

  Cécile knew she would have to prove she could hold her own at this court and pulling herself together, she addressed him coldly. ‘Lord d’Albret was passing on a last message from my father, the late Lord Holland. You have interrupted a sad and very private moment, monsieur.’

  The knight blushed to his hairline and bowed again. ‘Then I apologise for my deplorable timing, mademoiselle. I wished merely to assure myself you were in no distress.’

  ‘Lady Holland,’ said Gillet. ‘I introduce Lord John Kentwode, esquire to the Prince of Wales, and assistant to Sir Thomas Beauchamp and, on occasion, Lord Salisbury. He is responsible for ensuring the continued payment of ransom of Jean le Bon’s son, Philippe.’ Gillet took two goblets from a tray offered by a servant and handed one to Cécile. ‘How goes it with that, John? I trust you have made the King’s sons comfortable in London?’

  ‘Lord, I should say so, Sir Ghillebert,’ he replied. The man seemed to appreciate the chance to recover his embarrassment. ‘Damn Frenchies are given better treatment than our own men.’ He leaned forward, surreptitiously glancing in all directions to see they would not be overheard. ‘But I can tell you that Louis d’Anjou is an impatient hothead and captivity does not sit well upon his shoulders. He paces the palace like a caged lion and roars just as loud. I do not think he cares so greatly for London.’ Kentwode drained his cup to the lees. ‘I only hope the rest of his ransom is paid soon. It is hard to curb his patience.’ His eye caught a movement in the hall. ‘Ah, excuse me, I am being summonsed. Lady Holland, it was my pleasure.’ He bowed again and left.