The Lily and the Lion

by Catherine A. Wilson

  ‘Your pardon, Mademoiselle, Gillet de Bellegarde, at your service. I have travelled hard to reach here expeditiously and was temporarily dazzled by the sun.’ As he rose his gaze focussed into the distance behind me, a ripe expletive preceding his yell. ‘Swine!’

  Before I could question this unsavoury behaviour, I was seized and thrust high into the air, my veiled cap and silk slippers tumbling to the ground. Strong arms closed around me like a vice as a great, acrimonious beast, snorting and spitting, stampeded the grass where I had stood. A strong, repugnant odour accompanied this black spectre and, fearing Hell had spewed forth a demon, I screamed and buried my head into the man’s neck. A refreshing scent of sandalwood emanated from his skin, absurdly reminding me of home. He deposited me on a nearby bench and, thrusting his leather pouch into my keeping, drew his sword. The ignoble swine charged. Dodging, the man swung his blade and neatly sliced the boar’s back. The courier struck again and the animal pivoted, squealing loudly. Beneath two protruding tusks its lips spewed a white foamy lather. Reeking of blood and sweat, it turned and fled.

  ‘What in the Devil’s name is going on here?’ he bellowed. ‘Hoy, you there!’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur.’ The palace huntsman was running towards us, his liripipe in full sail and his chausses torn at the knee. He arrived breathless and bowing profusely. ‘Monsieur, I know not how it escaped. This has never happened before.’ He glanced at me, perched on the seat, shivering with fright. ‘A thousand pardons, Milady. I assure you, the beast was securely penned, awaiting slaughter.’

  ‘Obviously not,’ growled my surly saviour, wiping his sword and sheathing it with disgust. A group of stable boys, armed with pitchforks, nets and yowling dogs, clamoured past in pursuit. ‘I should offer prayers to Saint Geneviève were I you, my friend, for you are lucky that the Demoiselle was not injured.’ He glanced at me with an impudent smirk. ‘However, were the Lady’s trencher to hold the most succulent slices of pork on the morrow, she may be willing to overlook this day’s misfortune.’

  The huntsman offered a reverent bow and departed in the direction of the baying hounds as fast as his legs could carry him.

  Monsieur de Bellegarde retrieved my fallen apparel and his own bruised hat. He extended his hand to assist me down and, to my surprise, courteously kneeled to replace my footwear. So, this horse could be led to water but would drink in his own time.

  ‘My apologies for your hasty removal, Demoiselle.’

  ‘Why Saint Geneviève?’

  His sharp glance tilted upwards. ‘Pardon, Mademoiselle?’

  ‘You told the huntsman to offer prayer to Saint Geneviève. Why her?’

  ‘She is the Patron Saint of Disasters.’

  ‘Oh,’ I murmured, re-pinning my cap and veil.

  A beguiling smile gave birth to tiny dimples upon a face that belonged to Narcissus. ‘Perhaps you have need of her, judging by those tears I witnessed earlier.’

  Aware that his fingers lingered insolently at my ankle, I deftly removed my foot and stood. ‘My needs are not your concern, courier, and it was but dust in my eye. Your intervention with the pig, however, was fortunate.’

  He stood, towering over me, and nonchalantly straightened my cap. ‘I see gratitude is seated well below the salt at this court’s table. If that is what passes for thanks in these parts, then you are welcome, Milady. May I?’ He held out his hand expectantly and I realised I still held his leather pouch.

  ‘Oh! Of course.’ I thrust it at him and he tucked it under his arm.

  ‘Perhaps there is somewhere safer we can talk?’ His voice lowered to a conspirator’s tone. ‘I carry urgent news from your sister for your ears alone.’

  ‘My sister? Good Lord, what could be so important from a convent?’ I pointed in the direction of a walled garden laced with lavender bushes and, intercepting a maid on her way from the buttery, instructed her to serve us refreshment. ‘You said you travelled fast,’ I offered. ‘You must be thirsty.’

  ‘It is an honour, Lady, to be served by your hand and in such intimate surroundings.’ His cocked eyebrow sent heat rushing to my cheeks.

  ‘You said the news was private. Besides, my liberties at court have not yet been withdrawn so I take them whenever I can. And if, in doing so, I shock the good ladies, so much the better.’

  He masked a grin as we seated ourselves, before opening his pouch and sliding a parchment across the table.

  ‘Read the first page. Then we can talk.’

  I felt his steely gaze upon me as I examined it. ‘This says she was attacked! The Lady Mary also,’ I gasped.

  His eyebrow lifted arrogantly. ‘You were expecting the Pater Noster? Your letter was intercepted, so now your whereabouts is also known.’

  ‘But what has this man to do with me?’

  He signalled for silence as the maid drew close with our tray. Unlike her hurried approach, she unloaded her fare between us with painstaking slowness, her lashes fluttering hopefully at my companion. My cauldron of impatience brewed over and I removed the last two dishes myself and tartly dismissed her.

  The courier’s sable gaze slid from her departing pout to me and with astute regard he leaned back, the corners of his mouth twitching as I manœuvred a large piece of pigeon pie towards him. ‘William Montagu, the Earl of Salisbury,’ he began, ‘is a powerful man and stands high in King Edward’s retinue. He is not one to cross lightly.’ He paused to pour two cups of wine. ‘The wild boar lives by instinct alone and that animal earlier would have gored you without mercy. It was driven by fear and necessity, the fear of capture and the necessity to survive. Such thinking is deeply rooted in base creatures.’

  ‘And?’ I retorted, my skin prickling at the memory.

  ‘That foul beast is nothing compared to Salisbury. Do not dismiss this too readily.’

  ‘Well, why does he feel he is owed retribution? I do not know the man!’

  ‘That would seem to be the question. He mentioned the names “Holland” and “Broughton.” I believe they may have some connection. I would know if they mean anything to you?’

  ‘No, nothing at all. I have never heard of them.’

  Hungrily biting into the pie he fell quiet, his forehead puckering with a surly frown for the duration of his consumption. Pushing away the plate, he gulped some wine and wiped his mouth. ‘It would be prudent, Lady d’Armagnac, to be on your guard. Take no unnecessary risks.’ His observant gaze lifted, taking particular note of the fortified surroundings. ‘For now you should be safe enough within the palace. I will make some inquiries whilst in Paris but I cannot remain long.’ His eyes returned to me and I felt myself redden beneath their sooty warmth. ‘Can you have a reply for your sister ready within two days?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘Good, I shall return to collect it. Until then stay within the grounds and always in the company of others. I shall leave you now to finish reading your letter.’

  I placed my hand over his to stay him.

  ‘My sister, Monsieur, what is she like?’

  He stared intently at my hair and face, his perusal stopping chivalrously at my neckline. I felt a pang of regret. For reasons I could not begin to imagine, I wanted him to take my full measure, but the admiration I usually encountered in men was dismally absent from his evaluation. Instead he remarked dryly, ‘Your hair and eyes are the same colour but you are nothing like her.’ Something in his tone made me feel that I was a disappointment to him and I was taken aback. He stood and buckled his pouch, pausing as his gaze once more travelled my face and then lifted to search the castle gardens. ‘Fortune has favoured you, Lady.’

  ‘Perhaps, but we all have our crosses to bear.’

  ‘No. You misunderstand. I believe you are lucky to have found Mary Catherine.’ He bowed briefly. ‘Good day to you, Demoiselle.’

  Two days later had me searching my room for a misplaced stocking. Your letter lay close by but only half-finished. My distraction was a group of lower-ranking ladies-in-waiting wh
o, hearing of my recent misfortune, had snubbed their peers and embraced me warmly. For the first time I had been accepted by women of the court. I could hardly refuse their invitation to visit Les Halles, the wonderful markets of Paris, without offending them.

  Pouncing on the rolled up ball that hid behind a chest, I quickly peeled the stocking over my knee and tied the garter.

  ‘Cécile! We are waiting.’

  ‘Coming!’ The bloated mouser stretched across my pillow yawned lazily, its green eyes condemning. ‘I will be back before he arrives,’ I told the cat. ‘I will be perfectly safe. He told me to stay within the company of others. Besides, have I fallen so low that I must take orders from a courier?’ I bent to kiss the furry head. ‘And if he does appear before I return, make yourself useful and scratch the conceited wretch for me.’

  We set off over the Grand-Pont, taking the more scenic route into the Rive Droite, conversations bubbling over expected purchases and whether or not it would rain. The marketplace was teeming with vendors selling the latest fabrics, aromatic pies, woven baskets and elixirs promising eternal beauty. With barely room to swing an elbow, I found myself squeezed from my chaperon. In the bustle she had not noticed but I was not overly concerned. Between the jostling shoulders, I still had my companions within my sights and, behind them, the guards sent for our protection. Meanwhile, in front of me, an array of rich, colourful velvets begged touching. I reached out eagerly but my wrist was manacled by strong, wiry fingers.

  ‘Help a blind man, would ye?’

  I looked up to a bulbous nose that was surrounded by a hideous assemblage of scars. The colour of one eye was hidden behind a milky white glaze and the other stared, unseeing. His shirt was splotched with food stains and his offensive odour proclaimed his beggarly status. My mouth curled with distaste and I tried to undo his grip.

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Have pity on one less fortunate, kind lady. Cast your sight about and tell me if you see a tall man.’

  ‘A tall man? Sacré Bleu, there are dozens of tall men, you fool.’

  ‘No, this one should be waiting by the smithy’s sign. That be a red hammer on a black anvil.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I see the sign but there is no man waiting foreby.’

  ‘Is it far? Can you point me in the direction?’ One hand feebly reached into the air, striking a passer-by. A torrent of expletive disdain was hurled at us and I suddenly pitied the helpless man. Casting a gaze over the velvet, I sighed. It could wait a little longer. ‘Here. I shall take you. It is not far.’ I folded his arm over mine.

  ‘Bless you, my child. And may the good Lord bless you, too.’

  A measure of patience was required as we negotiated the crowd. He shuffled alongside and as we drew close he tripped and grabbed my arm with his other hand. ‘Is he waiting at the side, lass? Down the alley.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I believe he is. We are almost there.’ A moment was all it took. His grasp tightened and he pushed me, his sightless eye miraculously rolling to focus.

  ‘Now!’

  A heavy canvas bag was pulled over my head and I was lifted bodily, my teeth threatening to rattle loose as the running steps painfully jolted the breath from my chest. It rekindled the terrifying memory of the first time I had ever ridden a horse. A disobedient five-year-old, the adventure had landed me face first in a ditch, and my mama’s best headpiece, her treasured barley wreath, was completely ruined. I had closed my eyes in terror and bumped past six haystacks before losing my grip on the mane. I could only pray that whatever beast held me now, I would land with my head intact a second time.

  When my world righted itself, I was winded but whole. The covering slid off, but not before my arms were twisted roughly behind my back. Spitting husks from my mouth, I found myself in a stinking, shadowed courtyard, girt by crumbling buildings. The ground underfoot was a quagmire of slops and refuse but not even Saint Antony’s pigs, permitted to rummage the streets of Paris, would dare poke their noses in here. Beggars’ quarter! Something flashed and a sweaty palm was clamped over my mouth as a blade swung into view.

  ‘Scream and I shall slit you where you stand.’ The charlatan’s good eye slid down my body, his lips scrunching with a slow whistle. ‘Ooh, you’re a beauty.’

  A loud guffaw sounded above my head. ‘Yeah, an’ I reckin she’s just wet far ya!’

  Unable to breathe, my fear manifested into righteous anger and I resorted to the weapon of my childhood. I bit him. But the gormless lout who held me was not a child from my past and with a ripe oath he clubbed my ear.

  The next happened in a blur. A heavy pounding thundered towards us and I screamed as rearing hooves dashed within inches of my head. A sword hacked and the grip on my arms fell loose as my captor slumped to the ground. Dazed, I looked up to see Monsieur de Bellegarde, his face a mask of rage, fling himself upon the second of my abductors. His horse continued to stamp at the lifeless form at my feet as the two men rolled to the ground in a succession of grunts and flailing fists. A moment later, Monsieur de Bellegarde triumphantly withdrew his dagger.

  He stepped over the limp carcass, wiping his cut lip, spitting blood and fury. ‘Did I not tell you to remain at the palace?’ He halted, his eyes filling with horror. The colour drained from his cheeks and numbly I followed his gaze. A dark red stain was quickly spreading at my waist, the culprit dagger lying at my feet. It was only then did I feel the pain.

  His outline blurred and a cry was the last thing I remember. ‘Cécile! Dieu, non!’

  I awoke to find Monsieur de Bellegarde sitting at my bedside, quietly talking with a woman of later years. With a warrior’s alertness he sensed I was conscious and his smile was at least gentle. ‘How do you fare? No, do not move.’

  I ceased my attempt to sit upright as agony clawed at my side. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘You are at the Thorn and Thistle, a well-respected inn on the outskirts of Paris, not far from the Church of Saint Nicholas, and this is Marguerite. She and her husband have agreed to keep you here until I know what to do with you.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Not now.’ He laid a reassuring hand upon my arm. ‘Rest. We will talk soon. Marguerite will send her maid, Odette, to you.’ They left the room and I stared at the low oak beams, trying to place the pieces of my memory in order.

  Odette arrived bearing a cheery smile and a tray with a steaming bowl. Eagerly I fell upon the potage, sparing a glance for my sparse surroundings. There was no clothing chest.

  ‘Does Mademoiselle require anything further afore I go?’ bobbed Odette.

  ‘Oui,’ I replied, ‘where are my clothes?’

  ‘Monsieur de Bellegarde ordered them to be burned.’

  ‘Burned?’

  ‘Oui, Mademoiselle. By all accounts, there was too much blood.’

  I lowered my spoon and sighed regretfully. The rose gown had been a sin of vanity, and my favourite. ‘Was it really so irreparable?’

  The maid twisted her face contritely and shrugged her shoulders. ‘I cannot say, Mademoiselle, for I did not see it. I was at the market when the Monsieur brought you to the inn.’

  ‘So another maid attended me?’

  Her squirrelred hair brushed across her shoulders in denial. ‘Oh non, Mademoiselle. This is a small inn with only Guillaume the cook, myself, Madame and Monsieur.’

  ‘Ah. Madame Marguerite removed my gown. Then I shall ask her.’

  Her mouth slid sideways. ‘You could ask but I do not believe she saw it. Madame entertained an important guest in the salon. Monsieur de Bellegarde brought you in through the back door and straight up to this room. Excuse me, Mademoiselle.’ Odette, curtseying quickly, departed before I chanced my next question. I was left to muse upon her words, the only possible conclusion setting my cheeks aflame.

  The object of my embarrassment visited me later that afternoon. He threw his cloak over the stool and, ignoring its seating capabilities, perched upon the bed, his brows ferociously knitting together. ‘How much do
you remember?’

  I winced, trying to recall. ‘I would say … all of it. It would appear, Monsieur, that you seem destined to save me from pigs. Perhaps your true calling is a swineherd.’

  His eyes flashed venomously. ‘Do you enjoy courting danger, Mademoiselle?’

  ‘It might be nice to court something,’ I snorted.

  ‘I can see you do not appreciate the seriousness of this situation. Obviously I did not make myself clearly understood when I told you to remain within the palace walls.’ He emitted a sigh of annoyance and his expression was one of a parent about to deliver a speech to a wayward child. I had seen it many times. Cutting off his forthcoming diatribe, I gritted my teeth and launched my defence.

  ‘I remained in the company of others as you suggested. How could I possibly have foreseen such an occurrence? Salisbury is in England for Heaven’s sake. Oh, the Devil take it!’ My fist thumped the bed.

  ‘I should take my belt … Good Lord, woman! What is that absurd face you are pulling? For the love of God, why did you not say you were in pain?’ He moved to the table of accoutrements and filled a cup, adding a few drops from a small phial. ‘Here, drink this. Mandragora essence – it is bitter tasting but it will help.’ Gingerly he seated himself on the bed and inhaled with impatience. ‘I cannot be constantly playing your nursemaid.

  ‘You might be interested to know that I returned to the beggars’ quarter to discover what I could of your attack. What passes for honour can be bought for a price. The one-eyed man and his large companion were petty criminals and cutthroats. They had been engaged by a Pierre de Silver, hired by John Kentwode, who in turn is an esquire to none other than Lord William of Salisbury.’ He took the empty cup from my hand and placed it on the floor. ‘You have grown pale, Mademoiselle. Still feeling blithe over your little adventure? I believe their purpose was abduction.’

  I cringed beneath his scornful look but the tremor in my voice satisfied him. ‘Then why bring me here? The palace has guards and surely I would be protected.’