The Gilded Crown

by Catherine A. Wilson

  Sweat broke out beneath Bonneuil’s tabard and he slowly moved his hand back to the table. ‘I’ll go back but I want more money,’ he growled finally.

  The look on Salisbury’s face spoke volumes on his regret in mentioning the contents of the letter. He capitulated.

  ‘Fine. Half as much again.’

  Bonneuil had the bastard by the nuts and he was enjoying the sudden surge of power.

  ‘No. I want double.’ The sight of Salisbury’s teeth, flecked with pork fat, turned his stomach.

  Outside in the coolness of the evening, Bonneuil took a full, deep breath. For a moment he’d been unsure he’d get out alive. He’d rather sup at the entrance to Hell with the Devil than to ever step foot in a den of thieves and cut-throats with that bastard again. As it was, Moleyns had only given him one day to get the scroll. He set off to where his rouncey was hidden and once in the familiarity of his saddle, put his mind and horse to the task afoot. Heading to Blanquefort, his thoughts tumbled over each other and somewhere, in the back of his head, he wondered if that stupid wardrobe-mistress bitch had tricked him on purpose.

  The everlasting bells called the slumbering monks to Prime prayer and they toppled from their cots to shiver into habits and sandals. At Blanquefort castle, the sentinels outside the royal chamber slept peacefully as well, empty goblets strewn beside them. One had slumped against the wall, his helm angled precariously sideways over his yellow hair. He swung idly at his nose to swat a non-existent fly but did not wake. The same insect tested the second guard, the tip of a feather tickling his neck. Ten minutes on there was a soft plod within the Prince’s apartment. There was a spark and the briefest flicker of candlelight showed beneath the door before disappearing. An hour later, the guard with the luteous mane slid the rest of the way down the wall and snored deeply while inside the chamber’s virgin chimney, a dark shape dangled, waiting until the moon hid behind a cloud. Then it climbed out onto the roof and pulled up the rope. No soot was definitely a blessing. There would not be any indication of the silent incursion. Content with success, the shadowy figure tucked the parchment within the folds of a garment and as the moon emerged to dominate the night sky, ducked behind the gargoyle before making a leap to the hefty oak nearby.

  Catherine woke to the rolling motion of the carriage and pushed the plaid from her legs. It had been the same nightmare, heat and smoke terrifying her as she fell into a dark abyss. As she sat up she was flooded with a dizzying sense of foreboding.

  Agnes grasped her hand. ‘Are you all right, my dear?’

  Catherine shook her head. ‘I am not sure what hurts the most, the pain behind my eyes or the crushing weight on my chest.’

  ‘Lord Wexford will have us back to Edinburgh in no time.’

  ‘And what will we do then? How will we ever find Gabby?’

  ‘I am sure your husband will know.’ Agnes squeezed Catherine’s fingers. ‘Now, tidy your hair and brush your gown. An unkempt appearance will only give Lord Wexford further cause to worry.’

  Catherine did as she was instructed as she cautiously made her way towards the front of the covered carriage, climbing over their possessions which had been haphazardly packed in the rush to depart Govan for Edinburgh.

  Simon made room on the bench as Catherine clambered onto the seat beside him.

  ‘Where are we?’ She asked as she scanned the horizon for something familiar.

  ‘Ràthach.’ Simon said. ‘We will reach Craigmillar before Nones.’

  ‘Craigmillar! But I thought—’

  ‘I will speak to David alone. You are not coming with me.’

  ‘But Simon, you can’t leave me with Walter and Beatrix.’

  ‘In this instance you will be safer at Craigmillar and I will brook no argument.’

  Catherine stared at the road ahead, her mind in turmoil. She knew Simon was right. She would be a hindrance and a pawn David could use against her husband.

  Catherine grasped his arm as she was thrown up from the seat. ‘Will you take Walter with you? He may wield some influence.’

  ‘I have yet to decide. I think it best we wait and assess the Odistouns’ response to our sudden arrival before I make any decisions.’

  Catherine spent the next three hours concentrating solely on two tasks – praying for the safe return of Gabby and staring at Castle Rock as it grew more visible on the skyline. Simon directed the carriage through the increasing traffic, cursing several vendors with slow moving, overloaded carts and a goat herder who had lost control of his animals.

  Catherine could feel his relief as they neared Craigmillar, construction of the new tower having progressed noticeably in their absence.

  Roderick had ridden slightly ahead and was dismounting in the courtyard.

  ‘Who is Roderick embracing? It doesn’t look like Walter,’ Catherine observed as they drew closer.

  ‘God’s bones!’ Simon brought the carriage to a halt. ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘Armand!’ Catherine shrieked as she climbed from the conveyance and buried herself in his arms.

  ‘I never thought I would be so pleased to see you.’ Simon slapped the Frenchman’s back. ‘You could not have timed your visit any better.’

  ‘But I am not the bearer of good news, my friend.’

  ‘Then we best get inside for we are also facing a crisis,’ Simon explained as he directed the young man towards the large, oak doors.

  Walter and Beatrix met them in the hall; a small repast had been placed on the table and the fire lit.

  ‘I arrived only yesterday,’ Armand began. ‘Your sister and her husband have been most kind and offered me excellent accommodation.’

  ‘You are pale, son.’ Simon filled a tankard and passed it to Armand. ‘I would wager you have been unwell and are not yet fully recovered.’

  ‘That, my friend, is a long story and one I look forward to retelling with all its gory details, but not today.’ Armand turned to Catherine. ‘Have you not received an urgent missive from Cécile?’

  ‘No, nothing whilst we were at Edinburgh Castle and we have only just returned from—’

  ‘Glasgow,’ Simon interjected, fearful that Catherine was about to inadvertently reveal their destination to Walter and Beatrix. ‘We were escorting Lady Dunbar to visit her sister.’

  ‘But while we were away from the inn, Gabby went missing, along with Girda and Tiphanie.’ Catherine struggled to keep the emotion from her voice. ‘Simon and Roderick are planning to ride to the castle and demand to see the King.’

  ‘Are you telling me that your son has been kidnapped?’ Walter appeared genuinely shocked.

  Armand looked decidedly uncomfortable and set his tankard down with a sigh. ‘She must have arrived just before me. I had hoped to get ahead of her.’

  ‘I think you need to explain, lad.’ Simon frowned.

  Armand divided his gaze between Catherine and Simon. ‘Anaïs d’Arques has come to Scotland to reclaim Gabby. She travels with her brother, Robiérre, who we believe secured her release from the hospice.’ Amid the gasps, Armand told of the circumstances leading up to his illness and Cécile’s arrest as a heretic. ‘We were to meet Gabriel, Minette, Margot and John Petit in Le Goulet. By the time Cécile and I arrived, Margot had been murdered and Jean Petit was gone.’

  ‘Oh, my lord! Walter, you must tell them what happened to English Mary,’ said Beatrix, turning a nasty shade of pale.

  ‘When did you see her last?’ Walter asked Simon.

  ‘The day we departed for Glasgow. Catherine provided her with extra clothing, which she intended to share with family in the city.’

  Walter looked across at Catherine. ‘I am sorry to tell you that her body was found not ten furlongs from here. She had been brutally beaten, though none of her possessions had been stolen.’

  Catherine watched as the walls of the room began to sway and her head felt much too heavy for her neck to hold upright. The last thing she remembered were Simon’s strong arms about her and the scent of
his doublet pressed against her nose.

  Simon strode the short distance from the tower house to the stables and the turned and walked back. He was on his fourth rotation when Roderick and Armand appeared.

  ‘Perhaps you should conserve your energy, brother,’ Roderick suggested.

  ‘I cannot sit idle and if Walter even looks sideways at me, in my current mood I am liable to wring his skinny little neck.’ Simon kicked a small rock across the courtyard.

  ‘Anaïs and Robiérre must have arrived in Edinburgh at least a week before Armand,’ assumed Roderick. ‘And someone told them where they could find English Mary.’

  ‘She is well known amongst the staff both here and at the palace. It would not have been difficult to gather the information they needed.’

  In the sunlight Armand’s fragility was more obvious, dark circles ringed his eyes. ‘How is Catherine?’ he asked.

  ‘Distraught,’ Simon lamented. ‘And I struggle to find words to comfort her, for what am I to do? If Anaïs has taken Gabby then where are they hiding?’

  ‘Perhaps she will approach you?’ Roderick suggested. ‘Blackmail is at the top of her list of accomplishments.’

  ‘I doubt she would willingly cross my path, even for a large reward.’ Simon slumped down onto the stone bench by the outer wall. ‘I fear I will have to speak with David and ask for help.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ Roderick asked.

  ‘I have little choice, for what price can be placed on the life of a child, let alone two?’

  Simon cradled his head. Nothing felt worse than helplessness. Nothing, except the distress he saw etched on Catherine’s face. If it meant bowing down to David then so be it. He thought of Agnes and Clare Mentieth. He had been disgusted by their treacherous act, his heart hardened to their individual sorrows, but now he was able to empathise and could picture himself acting in a very similar manner. He would gladly exchange any amount of money or ancient relic for the safe return of his son and nephew. ‘If we hear nothing by this time tomorrow, I will ride to Edinburgh Castle and beg David for assistance.’

  Armand tossed the brush into the bucket and ran his hand down the Panache’s hindquarter. ‘I was not quick enough.’

  ‘You rode with the devil at your back. No one could ask for more.’ Roderick was perched on a short, splayed stool, his shoulder wedged into the corner of the stable.

  ‘But had I been a few days earlier.’

  ‘And if I could sprout wings and breathe fire, I would be a dragon!’ Roderick lifted the large flagon he had perched on his knee and gulped down the ale. ‘It’s not your fault, Armand.’

  ‘What do you suppose—?’

  Roderick thrust his hand towards Armand, cutting him off. They could both hear the disturbance in the courtyard. Armand drew his sword and eased open the stable door.

  ‘What do ya mean ya were told ta bring ’er here?’ The stable-master was shaking his finger at a man atop a cart.

  ‘She said Lord Odistoun would pay.’

  ‘Pay for what?’ Armand stepped forward, his blade glistening in the sunlight.

  ‘For ’er safe delivery.’ The man climbed down from the cart and threw back the cover.

  Roderick looked over the side and gasped. ‘Good Lord, it’s Tiphanie!

  Roderick scooped the young woman into his arms and carried her into the hall. Agnes immediately appeared, along with Simon, Walter and Beatrix.

  ‘The merchant said she hailed him down on the road outside Leith and begged him to bring her to Craigmillar.’ Armand closed the door behind him.

  Roderick sat the battered girl in the high-backed chair by the fire.

  ‘Lady Wexford …’ Tiphanie’s eyes fluttered open as she struggled to sit unaided.

  ‘Lady Wexford is asleep.’ Agnes reached for Tiphanie’s hand. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Lady Dunbar?’

  ‘Yes, Tiphanie.’

  ‘I … I rolled out of the cart. I had to get away. I had to warn Lady Wexford.’

  Agnes turned over Tiphanie’s arm. Her wrist was ringed with deep-purple bruises and her sleeve encrusted with dried blood. ‘Where are you injured?’

  ‘A man and a woman came to our room and demanded we give them Gabby. I tried to stop them but was struck down.’ Tiphanie reached for the side of her face, lifting her hair to reveal a large gash to her temple. ‘I remember waking to the cries of an infant, but I could not get up. Girda was lying beside me. She was tied up.’ A trickle of blood ran down her cheek and soaked into the neck of her gown. ‘I heard them talking about Lady Wexford and her sister, so when the cart slowed, I rolled to the rear and Girda pushed against me until I fell out. The merchant found me on the side of the road and agreed to bring me to Craigmillar.’

  ‘And you were near Leith?’ Roderick asked.

  ‘The man said the inn was close to the river. I remember because the woman was complaining that their last accommodation was not sufficient for her taste.’

  Roderick snorted. ‘Sounds like Anaïs!’

  ‘Beatrix, can you please order a bath and victuals for Tiphanie?’ Simon placed his hand on the young woman’s shoulder. ‘I will have Agnes look you over and dress your wound.’

  ‘Lord Wexford, the baby who was crying … it was not Gabby.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Gabby rarely causes much fuss and this child was bellowing.’ Tiphanie closed her eyes. ‘They will find it difficult to appease an infant in such distress.’

  ‘Roderick, saddle the horses,’ Simon instructed his brother.

  ‘I am coming with you.’ Catherine stood in the doorway, her cloak in her hands.

  ‘No. It is far too dangerous.’

  ‘Gabby and John Petit will need me,’ Catherine pleaded.

  Simon looked at Catherine and sighed. ‘Armand, would you escort my wife? It will allow me to ride ahead with Roderick.’

  ‘I am at your service,’ Armand agreed.

  ‘I will go with them,’ Walter offered, his face displaying genuine concern.

  Simon nodded his consent but was regretting his decision even before he reached the stables.

  Gillet watched his servants pass through the gatehouse at Blanquefort castle. The leather-sided carriage trundled over the moat bridge and out onto the road. Griffith was taking them to the inn where Gabriel resided. The idea had been Odette’s and, with Arn’s assistance, Gillet had procured a conveyance to carry everyone’s baggage, their departure disguised as an urgent visit to the dressmaker by the Mistress of the Wardrobe.

  ‘I cannot be delayed in the repair of these outfits,’ bawled Odette to the gate’s porter. Two of Cécile’s gowns were strategically laid out covering the Albret household’s luggage beneath. ‘I will not be held responsible just because neither their wearers nor creators can admit to the garments being one size too small! And the incompetence of the castle’s seamstress is beyond belief. Now, let us pass.’

  Griffith rode Inferno, the cantankerous steed concealed beneath a caparison of green chevrons but attracting no more attention than a guard’s smirk for his bad behaviour. The squire’s own placid beast was harnessed to the cart. Minette was atop Ruby, her mare in the possession of the new page boy who still had not uttered a word. He rode with his head bowed on his chest.

  When the carriage had been lost to sight, Gillet strolled idly to the stables. There he sat down on the well and permitted himself a sigh of relief. He dipped the ladle into the fresh water and glancing at the sun, judged it to be approaching Nones. The apt ringing of the monastery bells confirmed the suspicion. His focus shifted to a low bank of clouds gathering on the horizon and he was unsure whether to hope for an evening storm. The cover of darkness would see Gabriel waiting at the southern wall with a rope for his and Cécile’s escape and Gillet could not decide if bad weather might assist or hinder. He threw the ladle back into the bucket and headed for his wife’s chamber to wait in secluded safety. With their possessions gone, they had little with which to a
muse themselves for the next few hours. Gillet’s indulgent smile curved his cheeks. He could think of a way, or a few ways to pass the time.

  The corridor outside Cécile’s chamber was empty so Gillet dispensed with the pleasantry of a knock and let himself in. He knew he was expected. He just didn’t realise by whom.

  Standing alongside the far wall, Bonneuil had his arm around Cécile, pressing her against him like a shield, his dagger poised on the pulse in her throat.

  ‘Come in, Albret. We’ve been waiting.’

  The blood drained from Gillet’s face. He shut the door and held out his hand. ‘Easy, Bonneuil. Our fight is between us. It has nothing to do with Lady Holland.’

  ‘Ah, but you see,’ retorted Bonneuil, ‘this has nothing to do with our fight and everything to do with Lady Holland. She knows where Odette went and will not say.’ Time suspended itself and though Gillet was missing two guards to hold him down, for a moment he could have sworn they were back at the inn in Calais.

  Bonneuil realised it also. He tore Cécile’s head around by the hair and inhaled sharply. ‘By the blood of Christ! If I am not mistaken, is she not your whore from Calais?’ His gaze rolled down her front. ‘What happened to the child?’

  ‘Lady Holland was never a whore,’ stated Gillet, evenly. He took a step closer. ‘And I’d be asking whose child she carried before you make any rash moves, Bonneuil. The Prince of Wales does not like his mistresses skewered onto the end of a steel rod. It tends to peeve him.’

  Bonneuil looked confused. ‘But in Calais you were …’

  ‘Taking advantage of the situation, I grant you, but why else do you suppose the Lady is at this court? Think about it. I was merely delivering her to the Prince, remember? Your burst of heroism cost me dearly in Calais and I do not forget we have a score to settle but not now and not in this room.’ Bonneuil’s bewilderment stayed his hand and Gillet pressed further. ‘Let Lady Holland go, Bonneuil.’ Gillet took another step.